The Pathfinder Tales Library

Novels

Prince of Wolves by Dave Gross
Winter Witch by Elaine Cunningham
Plague of Shadows by Howard Andrew Jones
The Worldwound Gambit by Robin D. Laws
Master of Devils by Dave Gross

Journals

The Compass Stone: The Collected Journals of Eando Kline edited by James L. Sutter
Hell's Pawns by Dave Gross
Dark Tapestry by Elaine Cunnningham

Short Stories

"The Lost Pathfinder" by Dave Gross
"Noble Sacrifice" by Richard Ford
"Blood Crimes" by J. C. Hay
"Certainty" by Liane Merciel
"The Swamp Warden" by Amber Scott
"The Secret of the Rose and Glove" by Kevin Andrew Murphy
"Lord of Penance" by Richard Lee Byers

The Compass Stone: The Collected Journals of Eando Kline © 2011 by Paizo Publishing, LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews.

Paizo Publishing, LLC, the Paizo golem logo, and Pathfinder are registered trademarks of Paizo Publishing, LLC; Pathfinder Roleplaying Game, Pathfinder Campaign Setting, and Pathfinder Tales are trademarks of Paizo Publishing, LLC.

Edited by James L. Sutter.
Story by Jason Bulmahn, James Jacobs, Michael Kortes, Mike McArtor, Erik Mona, Richard Pett, Amber Scott, James L. Sutter, Jay Thompson, and Greg A. Vaughan.
Cover art by Jason Engle.
Cover design by Crystal Frasier.
Interior art by David Bircham and Ben Wootten.

Paizo Publishing, LLC
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Redmond, WA 98052
paizo.com

ISBN 978-1-60125-348-4

Originally published in Pathfinder Adventure Path #1-18.

Introduction

By James L. Sutter

The story you're about to read is unlike any other Paizo has published.

When we originally launched Pathfinder Adventure Path in 2007 as a monthly roleplaying game supplement, we knew we wanted serialized fiction in each volume, but none of us quite knew what that would look like. We knew we wanted the stories to run parallel to the Adventure Paths they appeared alongside, so that Game Masters could give their players something to read that would embody the feeling of the region without providing spoilers. We knew who our protagonist was, courtesy of Publisher Erik Mona: a member of the scholarly-but-adventurous Pathfinder Society named Eando Kline. Yet what we didn't know was what kind of fiction it would be: An ongoing story? A series of shorts? A travelogue?

In fact, by the time the first volume went to press, we still didn't know quite what we were getting ourselves into. Erik's first installment into the newly named Pathfinder's Journal featured a letter from Venture-Captain Shevala to Eando, but that was it—the rest of the slated space was used to present a world-building article giving an overview of the Pathfinder Society (a much-needed thing, given that it was our big debut and no one had yet heard of the group we'd named our world after). The fiction angle didn't get settled until the second book. At that point, both Jason Bulmahn and I had written epistolary adventures featuring Eando Kline and presented them to Pathfinder's stewards, editors Wes Schneider and James Jacobs, who loved them both. It was from that meeting that I got my new editorial mandate: Not only was I to massage the two stories so that they fit together, I was henceforth in charge of the Pathfinder's Journal—commissioning the stories, managing the story arc, and making sure Eando's voice kept that same mixture of world-weary grit and resentful goodheartedness.

It wasn't always easy. For instance, it wasn't until a few issues in that we realized Pathfinder was going to be far more successful than we had ever dared hope—and that, consequently, we needed to plan out the Pathfinder's Journal beyond simply what new dangers would befall Eando the next month. Nor did we realize just how hard it would be to synthesize the styles and voices of ten different authors, or to wrangle their various schedules (one of the reasons why a third of these chapters were written by yours truly). Having finally plotted out the basic arc of the story sometime around the end of the first Adventure Path, we nevertheless had plenty of last-minute additions and snap decisions that ended up having dramatic effects on the story's conclusion (not to mention its length—looking back, the idea of devoting three Adventure Paths to a single story seems like sheer madness).

And yet, even with all the trials and tribulations, something clicked. Eando Kline—surly loner that he is—came to life before our eyes. And through the entries in his journal, of which this book represents a complete compilation, we began to get some of our first glimpses of the new world that was coming into being. Of Kaer Maga, and its anarchic warren filled with thieves and scoundrels. Of the Hold of Belkzen, and the feral orc tribes that rampage across it. Of the subterranean Darklands, the parched and barren Storval Plateau, and the Grand Lodge of the Pathfinders in Absalom itself. Many of these locations have spawned books of their own—both novels and sourcebooks for the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game—yet it was Eando who first showed us what it was like not just to set a game there, but to live there. And in that, at least, he's achieved the fame he's always desired.

In addition to the collected journal entries that make up Eando's story, not to mention his copious sketches and illustrations (reproduced for us here by artists Dave Bircham and Ben Wootten), this book also contains numerous game supplements and sidebars on the world of the Pathfinder campaign setting, in which this story takes place. These sidebars follow each chapter, and are purely extras—footnotes to help illuminate particular aspects of the world or incorporate material from the stories into a roleplaying game. What's more, as seemed only fair to us, the About the Author section at the end offers not the biographies of the ten authors who contributed text, but the background of Eando Kline himself, complete with his most recent statistics for the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game. (It should be noted that these represent Eando not as he is at the end of the story, but as he appears when he makes a cameo some time later in the Serpent's Skull Adventure Path—but that's another story altogether, and not his to tell.)

We've come a long way since Eando first set out from Magnimar in search of a magical stone. Since then, we've created a popular roleplaying game, produced dozens of adventures and world-building supplements, and even launched a full line of novels called Pathfinder Tales. Yet Eando was our first narrator, and thus a little part of our hearts will always travel with him, wherever he wanders.

Now it's your turn to keep him company for a while. We hope you enjoy the ride.

James L. Sutter
Paizo Fiction Editor
May 2011

Opening Moves

By Erik Mona

Venture-Captain Shevala

To Eando Kline, Adventurer,

Street of a Thousand Idols, Magnimar.

Greetings and salutations from the city of Absalom, center of enlightened humanity and Jewel of the Inner Sea. The Decemvirate sends its warmest regards and strong support for your affairs in distant Varisia. May your exploits prove bountiful and memorable, your
cohorts trustworthy, and your rewards sublime. At your request,
I have enclosed information on the history and duties of the
Pathfinder Society—our society—so that you might establish
a front of operations for us in the City of Monuments. Our agents
in the field report that Varisia, with its ties to ancient Thassilon,
remains a steady source of lost artifacts and lore. I expect regular
reports as you prepare your exploits for publication, and as you
spread the influence of the Society to distant lands.

Yours,

Shevala,

Venture-Captain of the Pathfinder Society,

Absalom.

The Journey Begins

By Jason Bulmahn

Pathfinder Eando Kline

To Shevala, Pathfinder Venture-Captain

Grand Lodge, Absalom

Hail from Magnimar, where the shadow of the Irespan drowns out the sun. You were absolutely correct that the City of Monuments has much to offer our organization, and it seems that our fellows here at the fledgling chapter house are uncovering new mysteries around every corner. Unfortunately, the surplus of projects has left little enough manpower to assist me in my own research. Although my initial investigation of Magnimar's esoteric shops has turned up few leads, one merchant of antiquities—a corpulent man named Belsir Trullos—informed me that he'd seen an ioun stone resembling the one we seek during his most recent visit to Kaer Maga. After I plied him with more than a few coins, he suggested that I speak with a man named Dakar in regard to the relic. No telling if the stone in question is authentic or one of the arcane reproductions that occasionally pop up, but there's only one way to find out. All that I have heard about Kaer Maga leads me to believe it a den of inequity, rife with criminals, outcasts, vice merchants, and worse. So, nothing I haven't seen before. I've chartered a boat and will leave on the morrow, and as always I shall send you updates as often as I am able. If there's truly an ioun stone for my wayfinder in Kaer Maga, I shall find it.

By my wit,

Eando Kline

Pathfinder

10 Gozran, 4707 ar

Riverboats are the only way to travel. After spending the morning lounging on deck and enjoying the gentle rocking of the boat, I can hardly bear the thought of the long ride ahead. I wish I could have left Redmare behind entirely, but as the captain has only agreed to take us as far as Wartle, she's currently corralled near the stern, where she whickers uneasily at each shift in the current. Poor girl.

I've never been aboard a halfling vessel before and am continually impressed by its efficient (if cramped) design. Captain Othlo is of a helpful disposition—as he ought to be, considering the exorbitant price he extracted for my passage—and has been happy to put up with my constant questions. Having spent most of his life traversing the Yondabakari, he's an excellent source of information on the peoples and dangers I might face on my journey farther up the river. His crewmen, for their part, are decidedly less sociable, spending much of their time tending to the craft and speaking with each other in the halfling tongue. Due to their occasional laughs and side-cast glances at me, I am sure they find my awkwardness aboard their tiny boat comical.

The river here is lazy, meandering in bends that stretch for miles on its long journey from the Mindspin Mountains down to Magnimar and the Varisian Gulf. In places it's sharply defined, cutting furrows through the rolling hills of the lowlands, while in others it almost blends completely with the boggy Mushfens to the south, merely a ripple of current through the endless patches of low trees and swamp lilies that threaten to swallow the incautious traveler. To our north, the Dry Way follows the river bends closely, allowing carts and horse-messengers access to settlements farther east. It's this that I'll eventually take to Kaer Maga, but for now, at least, I'm content to doze and let the miles slip quietly beneath me.

Othlo is a fine captain, though the halfling's boat is a bit cramped.

12 Gozran, 4707 ar

This morning, the wind kicked up and forced us ashore, the boat making little progress against the combined force of both air and current. Despite my rising impatience to be on my way, part of me secretly welcomed the chance to get off the boat and stretch my legs. The longer we're on the water, the smaller Othlo's little cockleshell seems. The sparse woods near the river here are cluttered with game trails, so with an afternoon to kill, I saddled Redmare and set off for a quick hunt in the forest.

Not an hour into my journey, I heard a commotion up ahead, a strange cacophony studded with growls, whinnies, and hoots, as if a bear, a horse, and a monstrously huge owl were all engaged in a fearsome melee. Dismounting, I ground-hitched Redmare and drew my blade, creeping forward cautiously. On the other side of a large stone, a majestic stallion was facing off against a terrible beast combining the features of a bear and an owl. Seeing me, the creature let out a horrific growl-hoot, clicking its serrated beak shut with bone-shaking force. While impressive, the display proved to be its undoing, as the horse reared in terror and dropped its mighty hooves right into the beast's chest. The creature staggered, took a last swipe with its talons that opened the horse from withers to haunch, and went down, dragging the noble steed with it. For a long moment, nothing moved, the forest silent save for the frantic, blood-choked whinny of the horse. Speaking in a soothing tone, my sword before me, I approached.

Those talons are capable of opening a man like a ripe melon.

On the far side of the clearing was the horse's rider, or what little was left of him. The monstrous owlbear obviously struck from ambush, pulled the rider from his saddle, and ripped him asunder. The horse, an Uplands stallion that would have brought top dollar at the markets of Korvosa, must have remained to defend its master. A damn fine job it did of it, too—the last blow crushed the owlbear's ribcage, probably puncturing a lung. After making a quick sketch of the creature, I spent some time sifting through the mystery rider's trampled and ruined gear. He was an elf, and his raiment seemed of high quality, but beyond that there was little to identify him. From the road filth on his tack, he had been traveling for some time. Nestled at the bottom of his pack, carefully wrapped in a spare shirt, was a strange metal box with a puzzle for a lock. A simple incantation showed it to be magical in nature, but so far I've been unable to solve the locking mechanism. In truth, I'm not sure I want to—many of the designs on the box are unknown to me, but the engraved outlines of human skulls are disconcerting. Perhaps I'll hold onto it and let someone with more experience in such matters take a crack at it in the next chapter house I reach.

16 Gozran, 4707 ar

A simple meal, a hot bath, and a pleasant stroll around Wartle have made this one of the best days in
recent memory.

We reached Wartle early yesterday morning, and Captain Othlo quickly set his crew to work unloading their Magnimarian goods and taking bids on cargo bound for the big city. Though I once again offered him a fair price to take me on to Whistledown, he would have none of it—apparently a business deal gone sour with the town's gnome residents left him unwelcome and prejudiced against the other little folk.

Despite a long history, the town of Wartle remains something of a frontier settlement, populated primarily by swampers and trappers. Aside from a few highly successful brothels, most of the buildings and boardwalks that rise on stilts above the murky swamp water are filled with dirty, bearded men who scratch out a living exporting peat, fungus, and furs to the "city folk" downstream. Still, they're a boisterous and fun-loving lot, easy to get along with so long as you don't put on airs. Most of last night was spent in a precariously tilting dive known as the Lean-To, sampling the local liquor called Bog Grog. It's actually not so bad, once you get used to straining out the grit with your teeth, but it's generally a good idea to avoid drinking the dregs of the communal bottle. Needless to say, I got a late start today.

17 Gozran, 4707 ar

I left Wartle this morning astride Redmare after saying a surprisingly reluctant goodbye to the rowdy swampers. I miss the ease of the boat, but I won't deny that it feels good to be back on solid ground again. As I passed from the northernmost boardwalk onto the dirt of the road I encountered a small stone fountain marking the town's edge. Standing at the center of the fountain was a stone statue of a turtle, covered in a thick green moss, with water pouring from its shell. Perched on its nose was a single blue butterfly, and although I'm hardly a superstitious man, a momentary fancy took me and I tossed a copper coin into the water as I passed. You never know when Desna might be watching.

The Dry Way passes along the edge of the Sanos Forest, the Yondabakari drawing a surprisingly sharp border between the trees and the fens. Unfortunately, the swarms of tiny midges from across the water recognize no such demarcation, and more than once I had to stop to burn swaths of blood-bloated fang flies from Redmare's flanks. With such local fauna, few folk are willing to call these lands home, and on two separate occasions I approached a trapper's shack in hope of company, only to find a rotting ruin ready to collapse at the slightest breath.

As evening approached, the clear sky began to twinkle with a brightness rarely seen by city-dwellers. As the oppressive heat subsided, I decided to push on a bit into the twilight and was duly rewarded. In the distance, a faint spark came into view. Wary of will-o'-wisps and other hazards of the swamp, I dismounted and approached the site carefully, only to be greeted by the melodious plucking of a lute. No sooner had I heard it than a voice from the direction of the fire called out, "No point sneaking up on a minstrel, friend—I could hear your stomping a mile away. Come sit by the fire and warm your bones."

The rest of the evening flew by in a blur as Finnigar—a traveling storyteller of some skill—and I spent time sitting around the crackling fire, exchanging yarns and swigs of potent emerald liquor from his hip flask. One tale of note is recorded below—I would scribe more, but my quill grows heavy and the comfort of my bedroll beckons.

The Legend of the Whispering Tyrant

Long after the rise of Aroden, the Last Man, but early in the expansion of his empire, a band of his missionaries bound for points north encountered a tall, lonely tower on the banks of Lake Aletheia. In a single window near the tower's peak, a feeble light flickered. For days, the faithful had wandered through the barren lands, and the sight of habitation brought them much joy. Upon entering, however, they found only empty cobwebs and brittle bones slowly turning to dust. Climbing the dusty stairs to the tower's highest chamber, they discovered a single candle in front of the window, so freshly lit that the wax had barely begun to drip. Night fell as the missionaries waited uneasily for whomever resided in the barren tower to return, and as the darkness grew, so did their fear. Quietly at first, then slowly increasing in volume, sinister whispers rose, a low susurrus that tugged at the edge of their hearing, murmuring of wicked deeds and even darker delights. With prayers to Aroden for protection, they sought to flee the tower, but quickly found that the door they had entered through had disappeared, leaving a blank stone wall. As the hours passed, the whispers grew, and their urgings became commands. Minds cracked and broke under the strain of the vile suggestions, and those missionaries who resisted were set upon by those who had been claimed by the madness. In the darkness of the tower there was a carnival of unspeakable acts, the ruined monks cavorting in the blood of their fallen comrades, draping themselves with viscera and wallowing in perversion and depravity. Their shrieks echoed through the sinister tower, but only one of the former brothers was left alive to hear them, a missionary who had barricaded himself at the top of the stairs. Only by throwing himself from the candlelit window did he survive, but in doing so he left behind more than just his brethren. For the Tyrant of the Tower had demanded payment for his escape, and on quiet nights the pathetic mute can still hear a vague buzzing in his ears and feel a flutter in his throat as, far off in a forgotten tower, his voice is added to the tyrant's choir.

18 Gozran, 4707 ar

I awoke this morning to find Finnigar gone, along with the pair of coins I had left in my pouch. Removing the rest of my gold from my boot, I brushed down Redmare and continued on my way, peeved but unsurprised. Filthy bards.

20 Gozran, 4707 ar

Today's journey was swift and uneventful, and I passed only a single traveler making his way hastily toward Magnimar. The Dry Way remains close to the Yondabakari here, and the bugs are thick. Hopefully my campfire will keep the pests at bay long enough for me to get some rest. It is quiet here, and a warm fog has rolled in off the fens, bringing with it the strange calls of swamp life.

23 Gozran, 4707 ar

Perhaps that coin in the fountain bought more than I know, for surely it is only by Desna's blessing that I'm able to write this. Redmare is worse than dead, and I'm afraid it will take a dozen scalding baths to wash the stench of the Mushfens from my skin.

The trouble began three days ago, when I was awakened by the sound of Redmare whinnying in fright. No sooner had I sat up, grasping for my sword, than a sharp blow to the back of my head sent me back into darkness. When my senses returned, I found myself bound by tight reeds to a long pole carried by a pair of enormous frogmen. The creatures, known as boggards, are a serious threat to travelers in the fens, but are rarely sighted north of the river. It seems that my fire made me too tempting a target.

We traveled for what felt like hours, me slung underneath the pole, my back and neck raked by the tall thornweeds that infest the swamp. Another pair of boggards led Redmare along behind us, her nostrils foaming and eyes wide with fear. Despite my attempts to communicate, my captors seemed either unable or unwilling to speak to me. Instead, one of them actually stopped to pinch my side at one point, as if sizing up a succulent pig.

Soon after, we stopped at an immense mound made from mud, rotting wood, and swamp reeds, sculpted to resemble a gigantic frog with its maw open wide. There, sitting on a throne of alligator bones, was a monstrously fat boggard wearing the mud-stained regalia of a king. Upon his head was a crown of reeds bedecked with small stone fetishes, and about his neck hung a necklace of shells supporting a thick piece of amber above his breast. These, plus the obvious deference accorded to him by my captors, singled him out as their chieftain.

My pole was set upright, the bottom end jammed deep into the peat so that I might face their leader. After sizing me up for a moment, the king belched out a command and Redmare was brought before him. At the sight of my horse, his eyes glazed over with delight. The frogman then muttered a few croaks that sounded suspiciously like an invocation, and a host of gigantic dragonwasps the size of bucklers emerged from the swamp and made straight for Redmare, stinging her multiple times as she cried out in pain and terror. One of the boggards was nearly pulled from his feet trying to restrain her, but as the stings continued, her protests grew weaker. Every muscle in my body ached to break free and attack the boggards, but my bonds held firm, and I dared not reveal any of my other skills while so many of them stood ready to finish me off. Instead, I watched with burning eyes as my dear companion screamed, twitched, and gradually grew still, the red dragonwasps dancing about her prostate form.

...I do not know what day it is, or even what time of day. I can't be sure, but the night carries strange sounds and I believe the creatures are giving chase. If anyone finds this journal, please send it to Venture-Captain Shevala at the Grand Lodge in Absalom.

Eventually the boggard chief gave a signal, and I was carried a short distance away, where my captors divested me of my gear, cut the bonds on my sore limbs, and dumped me into a shallow fen. The boggards then placed a lattice of stiff swamp reeds over the pit and secured it with heavy rocks, turning it into a soggy prison. No amount of ink can describe the stench that invaded my nostrils as I carefully treaded water, attempting to keep my face above the surface. Presently, the priest-king himself paid me a visit, pouring a bucket of foul-smelling oils into my pit while his long, sticky tongue darted about, probing the muck. Rumors hold that boggards prefer to marinate their food before dining, but I never imagined I would experience it firsthand.

In the gloom of the Mushfens, it's difficult to keep track of time, but it soon began to lighten and I was able to peer over the pit's edge and take stock of my surroundings. Most of my gear was only ten feet away, piled in a heap near where a single guard lazily devoured the carcass of a large dragonwasp like those that attacked Redmare. The drone of the ever-present fang flies was only overpowered by the cracking and slurping noises of my captor consuming his meal.

Fortunately, the wilderness is full of opportunity for those who know how to spot it. After an hour of patiently waiting, I was able to trap a cricket that had come to investigate my prison. From there, it was a simple enough incantation to put the boggard guard to sleep. With a low croak, the frogman tumbled to the ground and began to emit wet, snuffling snores. Using another minor spell, I was able to pull my dagger from its sheath across the way and into to my waiting hand, where I quickly put it to work cutting the reeds that made up the bars of my prison.

The box is fascinating, but I'd rather not be the one who tries to open it.

Within seconds I was free and dashing through the swamp with my most essential possessions, this journal among them. I caught only a glimpse of poor Redmare, now tied to the ground with a number of terrible bulges squirming in her belly, but that was enough. I shudder to think of the fate that befell her, but an attempted rescue would likely have had me back in the stewing pen, preparing to share her fate.

I covered a lot of ground in that first panicked stumble, and quickly became lost in the twisting meres and mangroves of the Mushfens, but here my wayfinder saved me, for even without its ioun stone, a compass is a handy thing. Two days later, feverish and weak from exposure, I stumbled out onto the banks of the Yondabakari, with the twinkling lights of Whistledown in the distance. I must have been a sight, staggering bloody and mud-coated between the quaint whitewashed houses, but the locals took pity on me and ushered me into the Azure Cup, a human-sized inn where I was barely able to rent a room before collapsing.

Outside my window, the tiny wooden chimes that swing from every eave catch the faint wind and create the subtle harmonies that give the town its name. Tomorrow I will undoubtedly begin re-provisioning for the next leg of my journey, but at the moment I haven't the heart. A soft bed and oblivion will have to suffice.

I am sorry, Redmare.

Appendix: Dangers of the Mushfens

Numerous hazards and predators lurk in the Mushfens. What follow are just a few of the dangers travelers might expect to encounter when passing through the notorious bogs and fens.

Boggards: These savage frogmen are a deadly threat to any who wander the swamps (see page 84 for more information).

Dragonwasp: Beautiful but dangerous, these Small insects come in a variety of iridescent colors and hunt in swarms, attempting to sting and lay their eggs in any suitable hosts. (Use the same stats as Small monstrous centipedes with fly speeds of 40 feet and perfect maneuverability.)

Faceless Stalkers: The ugothol, a race of degenerate shapeshifters, linger in the depths of the swamp, sparking tales of body snatchers (see page 88 for more information).

Fang Flies: Oversized flies sporting long proboscises breed by the millions in the swamps, latching onto larger animals and drinking their blood. Attempting to remove them with force generally results in the proboscis breaking off in the victim's flesh and possibly becoming infected. Instead, applying a small flame or hot object causes the flies to detach without harm. (These creatures have no stats, being little more dangerous than mosquitoes.)

Marsh Giants: These hulking, misshapen brutes dwell deep in the Mushfens, adhering to a sinister animistic faith.

Moss Pigs: Similar to their forest counterparts, the flanks of these boars bear long strands of moss and fungus from rubbing on the sickly trees. (Use the same stats as a boar.)

Hand of the Handless

By James L. Sutter

2 Desnus, 4707 ar

Standing at the foot of the Storval Rise is like looking into the face of a god—sometimes literally, as in places the rocks have been hewn into massive representations of kings and demagogues whose identities are long lost to memory. The point where Kaer Maga breaks the relentless trudge of the plateau is no exception. Even as I write this, the city leers down at me from its perch, a thousand feet of vertical cliff face separating us. Waterfalls from the city's underground aquifers cascade down among graven images and portals into the fabled dungeons honeycombing the rock beneath the city, joined by long streaks of a less pleasant nature—I suppose when your window overlooks a chasm, the motivation to walk elsewhere to empty your chamber pot grows less and less.

While most trade caravans follow the Yondabakari all the way to the pass a few miles southeast, taking the easier ascent and following the ridgeline to the city, I decided to take what I find the more romantic approach: the Twisted Door. While most of the dungeons beneath Kaer Maga remain unexplored and viewed—correctly—as dangerous by the locals, there is one notable exception. From a set of huge bronze double-doors at the base of the cliff, the Halflight Path rises up through the rock, occasionally emerging to wind in treacherous goat paths along the exposed cliff face before plunging back into the stone. Vital to the city's trade efforts, this particular path is kept clear by the Duskwardens, a devoted group of almost monastic guardians who see through merchants and other travelers and keep horrors from the rest of the catacombs from invading the passage. All for a modest fee, of course.

Tomorrow morning I'll make my ascent and begin looking for Dakar, but for now, the sunset over the lowlands demands my full attention.

3 Desnus, 4707 ar

Sweet Desna, that was a lot of stairs. I need a drink.

3 Desnus, 4707 ar

Evening

Please excuse the wax drippings on this page—the owner of the Sorry Excuse charges extra for lighted rooms, and I'm already paying an arm and a leg for the use of this hacked-up desk. I shudder to think what the bargain rooms must be like, though judging from the commotion in the common room below, most of the patrons will be in little condition to pass judgment. But I digress.

I awoke at dawn this morning and joined the already growing line of merchants and travelers forming in front of the Twisted Door. Up close, the gates are even more impressive—the gleaming bronze is covered in embossed runes. Moreover, the doors themselves, which appear straight from a distance, are actually subtly warped, their edges seeming to rotate at strange angles, yet still fitting together without a gap. Running your eyes along any particular line, it's perfectly straight, yet when you reach its end you find that your vision has somehow curved, like the toymaker's twisted rings that have only one side. Truly curious.

Shortly after my arrival, the doors swung open and disgorged a dozen armed men garbed in dusty browns and grays, each bearing a badge on his right breast depicting a gold arch against a midnight blue background. These, then, were the Duskwardens. With an efficiency born of repetition, the bored-looking men levied their fee—a not-insignificant sum—from each trader and wanderer before organizing those assembled into small groups, which they then led into the gaping tunnel at intervals, each headed by one of the wiry, stern-faced men. The warden assigned to my group was named Darien, and when queried, he explained that the gaps between groups were intended to help the Duskwardens keep order, give them room to fight if necessary, and keep the travelers from proving too tempting a target for the dark things that hunt beneath Kaer Maga.

After a short wait we set off into the tunnel, the wardens loaning small glowing pendants to those in need of light. The path began to rise almost immediately, and though the way curved and doubled back enough to remain feasible for the merchants' horses and carts, before long the muscles in my legs burned like hot wires. Our guide, for his part, moved nimbly before us and between us, not quite dancing circles around us, but constantly ensuring that the darkness beyond our meager illumination held no surprises. Though the wardens sweep the tunnels constantly for danger, the threat was not so distant that we could afford to be careless. At several points we passed side-tunnels that had been bricked up, and in these places Darien instructed us to move as quietly as possible lest we attract the attention of creatures that might view the bricks as mere inconveniences. At one such wall I paused, and from beyond it I heard the faint sounds of roaring, a deep bellow that made the rock buzz, combined with a high squealing that cut off sharply. From that point on, the merchants and I found renewed strength to quicken our pace.

The path itself is an architectural hodgepodge. At its base it's hewn primarily from the raw stone, following natural seams and tunnels, but at several points it changes drastically, at one point becoming a tube so smooth that only the sand spread on the floor keeps the foot from slipping, while at another suddenly displaying ornate masonry and elaborate frescoes. Once, we seemed to actually be walking down a hallway in some grand subterranean city, the doors flanking us barred with locks and chains. The most harrowing portions of the journey, however, were those in which the tunnel emerged onto the cliff-face, becoming a ledge just wide enough for a cart, before plunging back into the rock. The view was magnificent, but one look over the edge at the sheer drop below us was enough for me, and I spent the rest of these spans hugging the wall.

Finally, however, the tunnel disgorged us into a small stone-walled corral on the plateau's surface, just a stone's throw from the walls of the city. Darien collected our pendants, thanked us brusquely, and loped back into the tunnel's mouth, scarcely winded.

Over half a mile in diameter, Kaer Maga's hexagonal ring of eighty-foot-high walls looms stark and imposing. The numerous doors and windows the residents have chiseled out at every height hold anchors for ropes and baskets, wooden ladders, or vast nets like the rigging on a ship. Up these precarious routes men and women climb without hesitation, the children scampering fearlessly from landing to landing, to pass through the haphazard portals into homes or thoroughfares. For where any other city might have a curtain wall, Kaer Maga is its walls—a solid ring hundreds of feet thick, hosting chambers large enough to house entire districts, many of them stacked one on top of the other.

For the outsider, though, the most common road into the city is through the Warren, and it was there that I found myself. Just as no one knows Kaer Maga's original purpose before generations of squatters turned its mysterious chambers into a bustling city, no one today knows what cataclysm might have breached these walls, though several theories reflect the fact that citizens born in the Warren seem subtly twisted, their women more likely to miscarry. Where the huge stones of the Ring end, blasted away to reveal the layered chambers inside, a new structure rises up to bridge the gap: a precarious shantytown of scrap lumber and broken stone. Here, in the Warren, a maze of scaffolding as high as the surrounding walls hides the city's poorest citizens, a vertical slum where bare planks create a maze that threatens to swallow the unwary. Through this the main road passes with no gates or guards—simply seven stories of staring eyes and grasping hands. The latter I managed to bat away, staring down the would-be guides that descended like flies as I moved through their muddy streets and into the open-air city center that locals call the Core.

Gav knows his way around the city, I'll grant him that.

For most travelers, the journey into Kaer Maga stops at the Core. The only places in the city to receive regular sunlight, the three districts of the Core are considered neutral ground by the loose alliance of gangs and guilds that rule the city in an anarchic, mercenary, and utterly tribal fashion. To the north, Widdershins provides relatively posh housing for those with means, and to the south Downmarket and Hospice milk gold from locals and transients alike through trade and lodging. In the middle rests the unnamed lake that fills the troughs of fresh water that riddle the city.

It was here, in the close-packed stalls of Downmarket, that I got my first real taste of Kaer Maga's storied population. In the centuries since the first squatters stumbled across the vast edifice, Kaer Maga has become a city of outcasts and heretics, a home for those who no longer fit into the societies of their birth. Into this anarchist haven pour the dregs of a score of nations—mostly human, but as different from each other as night and day. Sweettalkers from the far east haggle in their sighs and whistles with hairless Osirion shopkeepers, the lips of the former sewn shut to keep them from uttering anything less than the truename of their god. Veiled men of the Iridian Fold follow close behind their partners, chains and lacquered armor creaking, while farther down a cleric of Abadar ignores the propositions of a Nexian whore-priest. Where so many cultures intersect, tolerance is a virtue, and there are few items or services too taboo to be sold in the claustrophobic markets of Kaer Maga.

It was while I was watching one such transaction that I felt the tug on my belt pouch. Feigning obliviousness, I yawned, then in one movement dropped low and swung my leg around in a heavy arc, sweeping the thief's feet out from under him as I grabbed his arm.

Behind me, a child tumbled to the muddy ground. Dressed in the threadbare rags of a street urchin, he looked perhaps twelve. To my surprise, he grinned up at me shamelessly, hand still firmly in my purse.

"Ha! Good on you, Lord! Got a bit too greedy for my own health now, neh?"

Scrambling nimbly to his feet, the boy gripped the hand that held his wrist and shook it like we had just made a deal.

"Here, now, Sire, I can see how you might be down on my securing of a bit of advance pay without prior notice, but I assure you, I'm worth every copper. The name's Gav, and it's a pleasure to serve. So where to?"

I finally found my voice. "What are you on about?"

"Simple logic, Sire—judging by the way you're eyeing the goods, this is your first time in Kaer Maga, and everyone knows that I'm the best guide these streets have ever seen. So either you can chase me hopelessly through the city I was born in trying to recover this handful of tin in my purse, or you can take me on as your personal guide. Which'll it be?"

His rapid-fire chatter made my head spin, but I couldn't argue the point. Matching the child's professional courtesy, I nodded solemnly and dropped his hand. "I'm looking for a man," I said. "A merchant, I think. Named Dakar."

The boy's demeanor immediately became serious, and he glanced around furtively before pulling me down into a hunker in a narrow alley between stalls.

"You don't start small, do ya, Gov? What do you want to have a run-in with him for?"

"He's got something I need," I said.

"Right, well, see, Dakar isn't someone you just walk in and see. Don't know that any folks have ever seen him. He's what you might call the leader of a merchants' guild up in Ankar-Te." The emphasis he put on "merchant" told me that the man in question was anything but. "You're sure about this?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Alright then." And without another word he stood and moved out into the crowd, darting through cracks between bodies with the ease of a seal in surf, but always staying within sight. After a few moments, he stopped and beckoned. "The Augurs are the straightest shot to the grapevine," he whispered.

"What—" I managed, then stopped short. Before me rose a wall of green flesh covered in bloodstained rags, two piggish eyes staring down at me across a long, thin nose. One hand went to my sword as with the other I sought to push Gav behind me, but the boy was having none of it.

"Greetings, wise Augur," he proclaimed, with a small bow. "This man seeks your insight before an important transaction. Will you part the curtain of days and tell us of what is and may yet be?"

The troll looked me up and down, and I quickly moved my hand away from my sword. Finally it nodded and led us over to a small table near the wall of a smithy. Seating itself across from us, the troll finally spoke, its voice the rumble of a timpani. "What would you ask of tomorrow?" it growled.

Gav held out his hand toward me and snapped his fingers impatiently. I placed a few coins in them, and he deposited several on the table before blatantly pocketing the rest. "This man seeks a business deal with the merchant Dakar, but knows not where to find him. What will result of his search?"

At the mention of the name, the troll's eyes narrowed, and it gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Then it stood, drew a knife from a hidden fold in its garment, and before I could move, thrust it into its own belly.

With a sick fascination I watched as the creature pulled the knife across its stomach, spilling its intestines onto the table before us. The child, for his part, watched without blinking as the troll swirled its own bowels with the knifepoint, studying the blood that leaked in hot rivulets across the wood.

"What is sought will be found," the troll intoned at last, "but there will be a price. The blood will flow and will not flow, and the seeker will be the hand of the handless." Then it scooped up its entrails, thrust them roughly into its gaping belly, and staggered drunkenly away with the coins, one hand holding its already regenerating insides inside.

There was a long pause, and then Gav turned his smug gaze on me again. "There you go, then!" he said.

"What in the Hells was that?" I asked, aghast.

"An Augur," he replied. "Troll fortune-tellers. Don't worry, they heal up quick—he'll be fine in a few minutes. And more importantly, Gov, everyone knows they speak the truth—which means they know everybody. And he knows we want the word out. We've run up the flag, now we just wait and see who rallies."

He grinned again.

"So, Sire, where are we staying?"

6 Desnus, 4707 ar

Waiting is not my strong suit. A man could explore Kaer Maga for ages and never grow bored, yet returning to the inn each night having come no closer to my goal is disheartening. At least the kid's impressed—ever since he realized I was a Pathfinder, he's been an endless high-pitched stream of questions about how he can join. I refused to let him in the room the first night, fearing theft, and ever since he's quietly made his exit each night when I retire for the evening. This morning, however, I rose early and found him sleeping in the hallway in front of my door, curled into a ball.

8 Desnus, 4707 ar

My skin reeks of blood.

For several days Gav and I wandered the city, spreading the word of my search through his seemingly limitless stream of contacts and seeing some of the city's more appealing sights: the towers of Highside Stacks that house Kaer Maga's wealthiest residents, and the Balconies in western Bis, where the buildings climb the inner walls of the Ring like cliff-dwellings, a waterfall of humanity that pours out across the stone beneath a ceiling barely visible in the permanent twilight. At first he tried to take me to the assorted brothels and pleasure-houses of Hospice, but while I was impressed by the variety of delights being offered, some of the more extreme services the painted boys and girls whispered in my ear turned my stomach. Instead we drank in the Bottoms with the escaped slaves that call themselves the Freemen, gambled what we could afford to lose in the exotic gaming halls of Ankar-Te, and saved coin by bathing covertly beneath the bridges of Cavalcade—all accompanied by a running commentary from my surprisingly informed young guide on the city's recent history. The amount of history and petty secrets I amassed in such a short time was astounding, yet everywhere I went, my incomplete task hung over my head like a storm on the horizon, and my purse grew ever lighter.

When contact was made, it was sudden and jarring. While casually browsing a bookseller's stall, I was suddenly yanked backward as my arms were pinioned behind me. Out of a corner of my eye I saw Gav writhing in the clutches of a brawny street tough, and then everything went black as a second pair of hands pulled a bag over my head. I kicked out, catching one of my assailants in the knee with a wet pop, and with the back of my head slammed backward, crushing what felt like a nose. Then something struck me hard in the temple, buckling my legs.

"No more of that, if you want to meet the master," a voice whispered in my ear.

Suspecting I knew who he referred to, I obligingly went limp and felt myself bound and loaded into the back of a cart, which rumbled over cobblestones for some time before finally stopping somewhere far from the bustle of the marketplace. Rough hands pulled me upright and led me through echoing halls of stone or tile before finally stopping and removing my hood, leaving my hands bound.

I was in a stone chamber lit by hanging braziers, the walls draped thickly with silk curtains and tapestries. Along the room's edges sat row upon row of cushions and duvets, accompanied by low wooden tables. At the far end, the room was almost completely obscured by a large paper screen, backlit by a soft yellow light that cast strange shadows. Next to me, two of the thugs removed the bag from a similarly bound Gav before stepping back a respectful distance to watch and listen.

"So," spoke a voice from behind the curtain, "who is this who shouts my name so incautiously about the city?"

I cleared my throat. "My name is Eando Kline, Pathfinder," I replied. "This boy is my guide. I was told by the Magnimarian merchant Belsir Trullos that the man known as Dakar could provide me with something I seek—a gem of some importance to my society; it's known as an ioun stone. I come prepared to bargain."

"And what do you have to offer?" the voice asked.

"My organization is ill-disposed toward secrets," I responded, attempting to regain control of the situation and put us on equal footing. "Why not dispense with the cheap theatrics? I like to know what sort of man I'm dealing with."

The guards stiffened, but the voice gave a soft, hissing laugh. With a rustle and the sound of something heavy being dragged, Dakar emerged from behind the curtain.

He was huge. His face was long and narrow, with a prominent chin and hooked nose, the hairless skin stretched tight over his skull. Sweeping back from his bald forehead, an elaborate headdress of overlapping, bejewled plates clinked and rattled. Beneath that, however, any resemblance to humanity ceased. From the neck down, his body was that of an enormous serpent, dark gray and wrapped in places with ornate golden bangles. He slithered to a stop in front of us and laughed again at our expressions, forked tongue flickering between his teeth.

"Wormfolk!" Gav breathed.

Dakar isn't quite the man I had expected.

"We prefer the term ‘naga,' child," Dakar admonished. "It would serve you well to remember that. Now, Kline, I have freely granted your request, though to do so is not often in my nature. What do you have to offer me?"

"Gold," I replied, finding my voice once again. "Gold and information. Access to the knowledge of the Pathfinders, as vetted by myself."

The naga made a nest of his coils and reclined upon them, eyes locked unsettlingly on my own.

"Do you really think I need either, Eando Kline?" he asked. "I have eyes and ears in every corner of Kaer Maga—if I wish to know something, I know it. And your wealth is but a drop in the sea as compared to mine. No, Pathfinder, I deal in neither, but rather in service and favors. And I have one prepared for you."

I stood silent, neither accepting nor rejecting anything.

He nodded. "Good. As you have no doubt gleaned from your adolescent companion, I operate a number of enterprises in this district, and help maintain peace in the city through strategic arrangements with professionals in similar trades. Recently, however, an upstart has been attempting to circumvent these gentlemen's agreements and move in on my territory. Neshiel is a hemotheurge—a bloatmage, as some might call them." He glanced pointedly at Gav, who blushed but stood tall under the gaze. "The wizard recently had the audacity to steal a valuable spellbook from one of the hex crafters under my protection, and I want you to get it back... and deliver a message in the process."

"Why can't you send one of your men?" I asked.

The snake-man tossed his head in what I interpreted as a shrug. "It's complicated," he replied, his forked tongue darting out to taste the air. "A matter of guild agreements and powerful persons who must be appeased. Suffice to say that the known free agents can't be trusted and I'm not interested in risking my own boys. Still, it should be a simple enough matter, if you have the stomach for it. I'll even let you borrow something to make the task a little easier."

From behind the curtain, a tiny object floated up and over to me as if of its own accord: an amulet on a worn leather thong, carved from black volcanic glass into the coiled shape of a leech.

"While you wear that amulet, the magic of the bloatmage will be unable to touch you," Dakar said.

I stared at it uncertainly. "I'm no assassin," I said.

"Certainly not," Dakar soothed. "But unless I miss my guess, you know how to handle yourself in a fight. And besides, Neshiel's impertinence endangers the exceedingly fragile web of alliances that keeps this city from tearing itself apart. By putting some fear into him, you'll save countless lives. Think on that." There was an expectant pause.

"Alright," I said at last, slipping the amulet over my head. "When do you need this task completed?"

The naga smiled.

"No time like the present," he said.

Thus I found myself, only a few hours later, standing outside a prosperous shop in Tarheel Promenade, while Gav peered into the half-light for anyone who looked suspicious. He gave the all-clear, and together we moved into the building.

The shop itself was a vast collection of magical oddities: disembodied hands and floating orbs that flickered through every color of the spectrum. Gav's eyes immediately lit up with greed, but I shook my head slightly and he caught the motion. We were here on a mission—we were not thieves.

Sitting behind the shop's counter, Neshiel was exactly how Dakar had described him. Obviously once human, his skin was now expanded outward as if inflated, the rolls of bloated flesh crisscrossed everywhere with varicose veins. Beneath the surface, fluid oozed and eddied, his skin one vast blister. And across this gluttonous expanse stretched dozens of fat black leeches. He looked up and smiled as we walked in, revealing a set of perfect white teeth that somehow made the whole package that much more horrible.

"Welcome, Lords!" he called in a deep, jovial voice. "What wonders of the arcane can Neshiel provide?"

I wasted no time. Without saying a word, I strode quickly across the room. Neshiel's smile flickered and faltered, and then my outstretched hand met his doughy neck and knocked him completely off his stool, slamming him to the floor and pinning him there. His hands darted in quick gestures as he mumbled half-heard words, a glow of blue fire springing from his fingers and forming a net around me, only to evaporate the second it touched my skin. Against my chest, the amulet glowed red with warmth. He saw it, and his eyes widened with fear.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"Dakar sends his regards," I replied. "Where's the book?"

He launched into a stream of curses, cut off only when my hand constricted his windpipe. I looked up from where I crouched over his bulk on the floor and saw Gav watching the exchange with open-mouthed excitement.

"Wait outside and keep a lookout," I told him.

"But—" he began.

"Gav, outside."

He stomped out of the room and I looked down at Neshiel, his face twisted with anger and fear. "Well?" I asked.

He glared and clenched his jaw. Inspecting the bulbous flesh, I selected a particularly large leech and pulled, ripping it from his skin and dropping it wriggling to the floor.

He gasped at the pain, but only a few drops of blood welled from the puckered wound where the parasite had attached itself. I gave him a pointed look.

He spat, hitting me on the chin. I reached down and pulled another leech. And another.

As I plucked the things from the hemotheurge's skin, a curious change began to take place. None of the wounds bled more than a few drops, and indeed they seemed to heal remarkably quickly, but by the time half of the leeches lay crushed in a pile by my feet, his face was flushed and his breathing labored. Beneath me his flesh seemed to expand and grow taught, the vessels in his eyes distending until the whites were solid red. I ripped off two more leeches, and trickles of blood began to flow from his nose and ears. Beneath me his skin was swollen and purple, a balloon ready to pop. Finally he screamed, and I ceased my stomach-churning ministrations.

Only constant leeching keeps bloatmages from hemorrhaging.

"There!" he gasped, pointing to a drawer in the counter. "Book... there... take...." He seemed to be having trouble finding the words, and with a shock I suddenly wondered if the swelling in his flesh had extended to his brain. Standing and yanking open the drawer, I found a thick leather book with gold piping that matched Dakar's specifications. I picked it up and walked around the counter. Behind me, Neshiel moaned and pressed wounded leeches to his face, sobbing with relief.

As I neared the exit, I caught a glimpse of movement through a cracked door that I'd walked heedlessly past in the excitement. Flinging it open with my hand on my sword, I found myself confronted with a child. Eyes wide, the toddler couldn't have been more than two or three. On his flesh, corpulent with baby fat, sat two small leeches. He looked up at me in concern, then back to the sniveling mass of Neshiel. Both bore the same sparse brown mop of hair.

I pushed past him and out the door. Gav greeted me with enthusiasm. "What happened?" he asked, trying to look around me into the shop. "Did you get it?"

I felt sick.

"Let's go," I said.

Back at the Sorry Excuse, I sat at a splintered table and twirled Dakar's gem lightly over my fingers, making it appear and disappear. Even while dormant, the stone still sent faint vibrations down my arm, as if the limb were reawakening after falling asleep. Three empty pints and a hyperactive Gav kept me company, the latter still high from our second exchange with a real-life crime boss.

"...and that's how I would have taken him if you got in trouble," he finished, finally pausing for breath. "So where to next?"

I stopped flipping the tiny green crystal and replaced it inside my shirt, where it rested by my wayfinder in a pouch next to my chest.

"Well, out of this accursed city, for starters," I replied. "Hopefully before this whole thing comes back to bite me. Then find someone headed back to Korvosa and post some letters, maybe even stop in there myself."

"Sounds great," he said, flashing me that winning smile. "When do we leave?"

I stopped short and looked down into his open, trusting face. This kid had nothing to tie him here, I realized. No family, no support network, just the living he scratched out on the streets through his wits. Not that different from me, really. And now here I was, a chance for him to be a part of something larger, to transcend the day-to-day. I knew the feeling all too well, and confronted with those hopeful eyes, I couldn't tell him no.

"Alright," I said at last, taking some coins from my pouch and scratching a quick list on a slip of paper. "First order of business, as junior member of this expedition, you go pick up these supplies while I stay here and have another drink. You got it handled?" I raised my hand to order another mug from the barkeep.

"No problem, sir! Back in a blink!" And then he was out the door, sprinting with heedless abandon through the mass of shoppers.

I sat there for a full minute, watching the crowd beyond the doors. Then I stood and hoisted my bag, the drink untouched. Walking out the door, I looked one last time in the direction Gav had gone, then turned and strode quickly the other way.

The kid was sharp, there was no doubt about that. He'd make a good Pathfinder someday.

But I work alone.

Appendix: Going Deeper

While most of its residents are content to live in the city's soaring towers and hollow walls, Kaer Maga's surface structures are just the tip of the iceberg. Beneath the bustling markets, an intricate network of dungeons, tunnels, and complexes extends down through the Storval Ridge, and perhaps even farther. Although the top few levels have been frequently inhabited and remodeled by various daring organizations, incursions by the dangerous creatures that inhabit the lower reaches led the city to establish the Duskwardens, charged with seeking out and sealing all entrances to the greater catacombs. Even so, the depths of Kaer Maga remain uncharted and hold a powerful allure for foolhardy adventurers.

GameMastery Module D2: Seven Swords of Sin offers additional background on Kaer Maga, sending PCs into a well-defended arcane stronghold beneath the city in order to stop a powerful sorceress from awakening relics dating back to the time of the Runelords themselves.

Appendix: Who's Who

With so many conflicting cultures and outcasts from conventional society, Kaer Maga can be a confusing place. Presented below are definitions of some of the city's more notable groups, guilds, and organizations.

Ardoc Family: The extensive ruling family of Bis, golem-crafters who wear their chisels as badges of office.

Augurs: Troll soothsayers who use their own innards to prophesize with questionable accuracy.

Bloatmages: Grotesque arcanists who seek power through increased production of blood and lymph.

Brothers of the Seal: An ancient sect of militant monks charged with guarding a magical portal somewhere beneath Kaer Maga. Currently broken into two increasingly violent rival factions: those who wish to open the seal, and those who believe it should remain closed.

Council of Truth: A respected group of scholars devoted to unlocking the secrets of the universe. Disappeared suddenly a generation ago under mysterious conditions, leaving their facilities abandoned.

Duskwardens: A group of urban rangers and warriors devoted to keeping the dark things beneath Kaer Maga from interfering with the city itself. In charge of operating the Halflight Path.

Freemen: An egalitarian gang of escaped slaves that controls the Bottoms.

Sweettalkers: Religious zealots from the far east who, unworthy of speaking their god's true name, choose to sew their own lips shut rather than utter an impure word.

Tallow Boys: The common name for a loose-knit organization of young male prostitutes, many of whom also peddle information collected from their clients.

Appendix: The Ring Districts

The following districts comprise the region of Kaer Maga known as the Ring.

Ankar-Te: This district attracts the most immigrants from the distant south and east. In its narrow streets, child-goddesses locked in ornate metal palanquins mingle with zombie servants and hairless Tallow Boys as they race about doing their masters' bidding.

Bis: Bis's fabled Balconies, a vast swath of residences on the ring's inner walls, are ruled by the golem-crafting Ardoc family, their laws fair but enforced by an army of constructs.

The Bottoms: Escaped slaves and runaways of all sorts are welcomed into the ranks of the Freemen here, their emancipation protected by their well-armed "brothers." They hope someday to grow strong enough to abolish slavery in the other wards.

Cavalcade: Here a number of the streams from the city's unnamed central lake merge before tumbling down the cliff, giving rise to a network of bridges and water-powered workshops.

Highside Stacks: These towers house Kaer Maga's wealthiest citizens, some of whom have never been seen in the city proper, preferring to conduct their business via magic and proxies.

Oriat: Residents of Oriat tend to be cautious and jumpy due to regular outbreaks of guerilla warfare between Brothers of the Seal, which sometimes spill out into public and result in civilian casualties.

Tarheel Promenade: More established than the transient stalls of Downmarket, the bazaars of Tarheel Promenade are particularly known for their concentration of arcane services and temples.

The Warren: This towering shantytown, perched on rickety scaffolding bridging a vast gap in the Ring, houses the city's poorest inhabitants.

Appendix: Bloatmages

Hemotheurges, more commonly known as bloatmages, are spellcasters who use blood as a key component in their magic. As common lore holds that sorcerous ability is inherited naturally through bloodlines, bloatmages overload their own circulatory systems, producing more blood than they require in order to amplify their natural ability, frequently using the excess as a component in arcane rituals. As a result, bloatmages' skins distend grossly as vessels burst and blood pools in rolls of bruised, engorged fat.

With their bodies so delicately balanced at their bursting point, bloatmages must be careful to regularly let their own blood in precise amounts, usually through the strategic placement of dozens of leeches. Without such measures, the increased pressure on a bloatmage's brain causes him to lose most of his higher cognitive functions and fly into an insane rage, lashing out both physically and magically. If the hemorrhaging bloatmage is not immediately bled in this situation, organs buckle under the strain and he quickly lapses into seizures and dies.

Although evil bloatmages have been known to collect the blood of others or form symbiotic relationships with vampires, most bloatmages are scholarly ascetics concerned primarily with unlocking greater power through the blending of sorcery and wizardry than either is capable of alone.

Appendix: The Core Districts

The central part of Kaer Maga consists of these three districts.

Downmarket: Common lore holds that you can find anything you want in this crowded market of wagons and stalls, no matter how rare or taboo—as long as you can pay the often steep prices.

Hospice: Catering to visitors and residents alike, the inns and bordellos of Hospice specialize in a wide variety of cultural comforts and fetishes, earning a reputation as the most lavish (and morally decrepit) red light district in Varisia.

Widdershins: Merchants and middle-class citizens without ties to any of the ruling factions tend to settle in this relatively peaceful residential neighborhood, maintaining a well-paid constabulary to keep it that way.

Fool's Gold

By Mike McArtor

13 Desnus, 4707 ar

They say the heart's natural state is one of yearning, and nowhere is this truer than in regard to the open road. Put me too long in any given city, and my legs will itch for the feel of a horse beneath them, my toes for the sand of distant shores. Yet just two days out of Kaer Maga, the rains hit, drenching me so thoroughly that I dared not unwrap my journal from its oilskin, and I began to remember why it is that man builds cities in the first place.

Thus it was with a glad heart that I came to the crumbling walls of Sirathu, poorest of Korvosa's holdings. Everything I'd heard of it in the past had painted it as a backwater suited solely for sharecroppers and herdsmen (and the occasional disgraced noble), but as I arrived its muddy streets were abuzz with activity, even given the rain that fell in obscuring sheets from the tiled roofs. Taking the opportunity to dry out and rent a room at the Royal Hare, I spent a bit of time in the common room, and was well rewarded. It seems that since the town's inception, a font known as the White Prince's Fountain has stood dry in the market square. When it was originally constructed, the leaders of Korvosa promised it would be enchanted to provide limitless amounts of pure, clean water, so that the town might never need bother with wells. Before it could be finished, however, the collapse of the Chelaxian Empire drew the city's attention elsewhere, and the fountain has stood dry ever since, a symbol of the nobility's low opinion of the common man. A few months ago, however, a young local girl was found unconscious next to the fountain, which now poured forth water so pure that it rejected even the dust of the air. And the girl, too, seemed changed, speaking sometimes as a child and sometimes in a stranger's voice, warning those who would listen that they must rise up and break with Korvosa entirely before it's too late. While not all of the locals have gathered arms and rushed to the child's standard, the strange events leave little doubt among these practical people that, one way or another, change is coming.

As is fitting with my role and nature, I of course attempted to arrange an audience with the child, but the locals are understandably suspicious of outsiders and reluctant to endanger their supposed oracle. Perhaps if I remain for a few days and gain their trust, they'll change their minds. If not, well—between the disturbing puzzle box I took off the dead elf in the swamps and the ioun stone that still needs to be examined by someone more experienced in such matters, I have more than enough mysteries on my plate.

3 Erastus, 4707 ar

Three weeks! Three weeks I chased those gods-damned thieves across southeastern Varisia, and only now, hiding in the dark crotch of a bridge like a beggar, am I finally able to begin thinking clearly again.

It was my own fault, of course. The wine at the Royal Hare is less watered-down than most, and as the night of my arrival wore on the patrons proved too eager an audience for tales of my wanderings. Unable to resist, I expounded until my voice was hoarse, plied by the steady stream of drinks from my new friends, locals and travelers alike. While recounting my journey upriver on this latest mission, I came to my encounter with the owlbear, and as a grand finale pulled out the skull-embossed puzzle-box I acquired there. It had the desired effect, provoking gasps and signs against evil, but my pride proved my undoing.

Later that night, after I had staggered back to my room and readied myself for bed, there came a knock at the door. Made foolish by wine, I presumed it to be yet another admirer, perhaps a comely local lass looking for a tumble with the mysterious stranger. Cracking the door and peering out, I discovered three figures I recognized from the common room: a burly half-orc, a Varisian woman, and an effete elf. Before I could react, the half-orc slammed the door forward and into my nose, which broke with a crunch. My eyes clouded with pain, I stumbled backward, fumbling for my dagger, as the three moved quickly into the room. The elf and the woman ignored me completely as they rifled through my possessions, chattering urgently in some language or cant I couldn't understand. I, for my part, had little attention to spare them either, as my blurred vision filled with the looming dark mass of the half-orc. I jabbed tentatively at his shape with my dagger, but he caught my arm and squeezed until the bones groaned in protest and I dropped the weapon, lest he break my wrist. Grabbing my throat with his other massive paw, he lifted me free of the floor and thrust me against the wall, keeping me out of the way of the searchers.

At that moment the elf let out a triumphant cry. In the tongue of his people, he blurted out something about "the box." In response the woman hissed angrily at him in their mystery language, and the half-orc turned his head to mumble something back over his shoulder. That was all the chance I needed. Pulling my legs up tight, I withdrew a hidden dagger from my boot and swung it hard and underhand into the orc's side, sliding it flat between his ribs. He grunted as my blade slid forward to the quillons and I torqued left with all my might. Warm blood and worse drenched my arm and chest, and the half-orc and I dropped to the floor in a tangled mess.

Thrusting the twitching corpse aside, I stood just in time to see the window shutters swing free and hear the quiet thuds of bodies hitting mud. Singing a quick psalm of healing to mend my nose and purge the unbidden tears that blurred my sight, I ran to the window and found the elf and woman mounting a pair of waiting horses, a third steed standing unladen and obviously intended for the half-orc. I turned to gather my gear and give chase, only to discover my pack missing, along with this precious journal and the wayfinder that, in more cautious moments, I keep around my neck to prevent such things. Taking up my sword, I vaulted after them to the street below. Yet before I could cut them down, the thieves put spurs to flanks and raced south along the town's main road, followed by my screams of impotent rage.

The strange fountain offers pure water and ill omens.

The next seven days are a blur of motion. Pounding on the door of the local horse trader, I purchased a swift-looking mare at an outrageous price and was on the road within hours, using all of my meager tracking skills to follow the bandits' trail. Had they even for a day crossed into the woods or attempted to double back and ambush me, all would assuredly have been lost, but the bastards flaunted their confidence by staying to the road, always just a half-day's ride ahead of me. At night, sometimes, I would see their campfire in the distance, but though I rode until my horse blew bloody foam and I swayed unconscious in the saddle, the trail led ever onward, until at last I topped a rise and found myself staring out over the vast expanse of Korvosa, the grandest metropolis in Varisia. In the burgeoning light of dawn it glittered like spun gold, every roof and steeple reflecting the honeyed glow. Yet only a fool takes Korvosa at face value.

At the bottom of the hill the wide trail suddenly became a paved road, straight and level. For the last mile into town I rode on massive slate slabs surrounded by shards of gray flint. It was the only time I had seen such a road in Varisia, and I wondered as I went if similar thoroughfares crisscross all of Cheliax.

This road took me through a tent city filled with the sights and smells normally associated with native Varisians and Shoanti, which the locals derogatorily call Thief Camp. To the south, Thief Camp gives way to an area of roughly built wooden houses and shops catering to visitors from elsewhere in the region. Residents of the city use this unnamed area as a buffer between themselves and, as they put it, "those thieves and savages outside." After making a few subtle inquiries with the merchants and traders in Thief Camp, I at last followed the road to a massive stone bridge ending in a black-marble gatehouse in the Wall of Erodred.

The Avenue of Arms continues to defy explanation.

That twenty-foot-high wall, made of black marble, bears along its top a row of black, downward-pointing metal spikes, broken only by the occasional leering bust of some fiend or another. From what I understand, this reflects modern Chelaxian architectural sensibilities, and was yet another failed attempt by a monarch of Korvosa—in this case the recently deceased king, Erodred the Second—to lure Cheliax into reabsorbing the city.

At the gate, I stopped and attempted to press one of the guards for information on the two thieves who had passed before me, but though I offered healthy bribes, the guardsman shoved away my palmed coins with bored disdain. Of all the times to run across an honest guard... Fortunately for me, my questions were overheard by a nearby beggar who was happy to point me in the right direction, and there began a long stretch of skulking and information gathering that bled my purse almost dry.

Despite nearly a dozen bridges, Korvosa is a divided city, carved apart by the Jeggare River and the Strait of Saint Alika. Seven districts, divided further into one to five wards apiece, split the city into relatively distinct administrative, cultural, and economic sections. While no single wall surrounds the entire city, several wards are physically defined by walls of varying ages and styles.

I spent six days in the North Point District, canvassing the inns and taverns in search of my quarry. Comprised of four large, sparsely populated wards, North Point houses many of the city's oldest non-noble families. The Infernal Wall opens onto Northgate, home of the city hall, the gloomy Arbiter's Hall, and the Bank of Abadar. The remnants of the city's first mainland walls define the northern edge of the ward, dividing the influential Gaters (as they're called by the rest of the city) from the truly old money in Mainshore.

Coming up empty and growing increasingly nervous, I crossed into the inviting but bustling Midland District. When people think of Korvosa, they generally think of the cosmopolitan crowds of Midland. Regardless of the bustle, I knew almost immediately that I wouldn't find who I sought there—the district contains the Korvosan Guard's headquarters, as well as both a department of the beloved Sable Knights and the hard-hearted Order of the Nail. As such, it's not exactly welcoming toward the lawless, nor to vigilantes bent on their own form of justice. I circled northwest and climbed into the Heights District, passing by the University of Korvosa on my way.

It was here that I finally struck gold. Leaving the Posh and Turtle just below Korvosan Tower, I found myself waylaid by one of several beggars I had contracted to keep watch for my quarry. Surprisingly nimble in his stinking rags, the panhandler led me north along the waterfront via the Avenue of Arms. As I reached its north end, I came upon an intersection with a wide, tree-lined boulevard, and there, leaning against one of the trees' slender trunks, slouched the foppish elf who had eluded me
for so long.

Circling wide around the square, I approached from behind and at an angle, keeping the bole of the tree between us. When I grew close enough to brush up against its smooth bark, I turned and drew my dagger, wrapping my arms around both tree and elf and pinning him there, dagger pricking the skin beneath his chin. Placing my cheek next to his, I whispered in his ear.

"Hello, friend."

To his credit, he didn't flinch. Instead he turned his head slowly, careful not to impale himself on my blade, until he could look me in the face. At that, his eyes widened the tiniest bit, and I smiled with all of my teeth.

Faster than I could blink, he straightened his legs and leapt into the air, bringing his throat clear of my blade. Before I could react, he slammed an elbow down on my still-sore wrist, smashing it between bone and the tree trunk. I howled and lost my grip, and then he was off, dodging through the busy streets. Obviously more experienced with the territory, he nearly lost me in the crowds of that lane as we raced across a narrow bridge, over the Strait of Saint Alika, and into the least desirable section of the city: Old Korvosa.

Completely covering Endrin Isle, Old Korvosa is, as the name implies, the oldest section of the city. And the dirtiest. And the most dangerous. The cramped tenements of Bridgefront make the claustrophobic apartments of Old Dock appear roomy and expansive, seeming more akin to the towering shanties of Kaer Maga's Warren district. Coming to the end of the bridge, I found myself suddenly in an entirely new environment. I had heard tales of Old Korvosa, of course, but the stories never really conveyed the sights and stomach-churning smells of the place. Here, maimed veterans of the Goblinblood Wars sat begging along the streets. There, dealers in pesh and qat peddled their wares in plain sight. All of this I took in at a glance, but spared no attention for.

The elf veritably danced through the crowded, stinking throngs. Even as I fell behind in our slow-moving chase, I watched with begrudging respect the way he spun full around to dodge through a group of thick-handed copper beaters, or grabbed a stirrup to slip under a slow-moving horse. Elves and halflings always make the best cutpurses, and this one was no exception.

At last we broke through the first two blocks of the district, past the walls of ramshackle tenements and squeezed townhouses. With Bridgefront behind me, I found myself in Garrison Hill. Still crowded, this oldest part of the city (outside of Fort Korvosa itself) at least provides wider avenues and boulevards, especially as you near the cliffs of the island, where the high walls of the rebuilt fort still stand, proud and erect.

The elf leapt through a merchant's cart, stomping on a display of wrinkling Ravenmoor grapes, then vaulted over the bewildered Varisian tending the makeshift stall and tumbled along the alley floor behind. Not trusting the slick fruit, I instead leapt to the side of the cart, planted one foot on the wall of the nearby building, and spun through the air behind the merchant.

I landed awkwardly in a puddle of something, and my feet slipped out from under me, gravity slamming me hard into the pavement. The foul liquid, redolent of urine and fish, splashed up around me, soaking my clothing and coating me in a slick of filth. The elf reached the end of the alley and turned, passing from view. Struggling to my feet, I followed.

And stopped short. The narrow waterfront lane I found myself in held a dozen or so people, but not one of them an elf. Painfully aware of the stares of the fishermen around me, I breathed hard, attempting to ignore the burning in my chest. That's when I heard a soft wooden bang to my right. Turning, I noted a small greasy window almost level with the street, with scuff marks scarring the sill. Without a second thought, I dashed at the window and dropped, trusting the slimy filth covering
me to grease my slide. With my right foot leading I smashed through the glass and struck something soft and yielding on the other side.

The elf and I landed hard on the rough-hewn floor of a cellar, with me on top. For a moment we lay there head-to-toe with each other, gasping to regain our wind, then simultaneously launched into a flurry of kicks that bloodied each other's faces but lacked the leverage to do any real damage. That tactic proving ineffective, I rolled off the elf and came to my feet. At that moment, the extent of my injuries became apparent. Long slivers of glass stuck out of my legs, chest, and arms, and wide patches of blood coated my body, seeping through my already befouled clothing. Darkness framed my vision and my knees buckled with exhaustion, but I managed to grab the edge of the window frame and catch myself. Through the haze of a raging headache I noticed the elf moving even slower, and took the opportunity to hum an aria borrowed from the priests of Desna, feeling the magic inherent in the music close the worst of my wounds and fill my veins with new life. Bits of glass fell from my flesh as I stepped forward, still shaky, and drew my sword.

Rising slowly, one arm held close against his chest to immobilize it, the elf began to weave his fingers in strange movements, mouth moving but eyes still set in that same expressionless mask. A spell? Really? With my sword drawn? Fast as he was, not even an elf could concentrate on a spell and still expect to dodge me. Before he could finish his incantation, I lunged forward and ran my sword clear through his stomach, carrying him to the ground with me, where I lay panting on his corpse, his blood flowing out between us and warming my hands.

For a short time I stayed there, surveying my surroundings from the floor. On first blush, it looked like a water-damaged empty basement. In fact, it looked like a basement on second and third blushes as well. Sighing, I sat up on the dead elf's chest, causing a spurt of blood to blast a streak of crimson on my arm. Absently, I backhanded his face. Why did he run down into an abandoned basement? Maybe he lived in the building above. Maybe he knew someone who did. Still, his strength was in his speed, and he had sacrificed it. Why? Glancing down at the body, I noticed for the first time a thin chain around his neck, at the end of which hung a softly glowing key.

Maybe he had a way out after all.

Gods, the smell.

Snatching up the key, I walked up the wooden stairs leading out of the dusty basement and tried the key in the door. No luck. Over the next several minutes I tried putting the key into anything resembling a hole I could find in that dust-filled, gods-forsaken basement. At last my frustration got the best of me, and I fell to kicking the elf's corpse, punctuating each strike with a curse or unanswered question. Then with one final kick, his body shifted, and I discovered what I had been missing: beneath where the elf had fallen, his wide puddle of blood seemed to drain, ever so slowly, into a previously unseen crack beneath the body.

As I moved the key near the crack it began to glow more brightly. Encouraged, I stuck it in and twisted. With an audible, grinding crunch, a rectangular outline of cracks suddenly formed in the floor, with a dozen parallel cracks running across it. The parallel sections recessed in a series of mechanical chunks, forming a steep, crudely cut set of stairs, dripping now with blood. A terrible draft of corruption washed into the basement.

Ah, how wonderful. Sewers. A section of the famed Vaults of Korvosa.

With a quick search of the elf's body, I found little to identify him, but plucked an unused handkerchief from of his pouches and put it to my nose. As I had hoped, it was perfumed. Elves. I tied it around my head to cover my mouth and nose.

Holding my sword out before me, I descended into the yawning sewer, searching for any indication of recent passage. At the foot of the stairs, a low-ceilinged tunnel flowed sluggishly with a morass of salt-water sludge a foot deep, stretching out into the darkness. Holding up the elf's key, which continued to glow with a pale blue light, I continued cautiously down the tunnel. After a time, the passage curved and I caught a glimmer of dim radiance, accompanied by the shuffling and snorting of something huge. Then the tunnel opened up, and I found myself staring down upon one of the island's many cesspits... and its inhabitants.

Massive three-legged monstrosities with mouths that filled their bulbous bodies waddled around in the filth and refuse collected below the city. If they saw me they did not react, for they continued their disgusting work, shoveling huge piles of garbage into their gaping maws. Careful to make as little noise as possible, I edged around the circular chamber on a narrow, man-sized walkway. Three other similarly sized pipes opened into the cesspit, and as with the stairs, the key grew brightest near the far tunnel. Fair enough. Not wanting to remain near the massive, dangerous, and nauseating creatures any longer than I already had, I moved quickly down the passage. Almost immediately the air changed, the odor lessening until it felt almost fresh.

Taking heart, I continued on, finally coming to a raised dais made of wood and covered in a thick and muddy layer of pine needles and dirty hay. A wooden trap door waited in the roof above. In front of me, horizontal lines cut directly into the stone wall created a makeshift ladder. Climbing it, I slid a dagger's blade into the slight gap between door and roof and pried. The thin blade provided little in the way of a view, but after several finger- and toe-cramping minutes I guessed the room beyond to be empty.

Taking a deep breath, I threw open the door, scampering up the ladder and through the hatch as quick as I could. I was alone, but I felt certain someone had heard my entry. Silently I took in the boot-filled mudroom in which I found myself before moving into a well-appointed entry hall. Kicking off my slime-coated boots so as to not leave a trail, I began my exploration in earnest. Voices drifted throughout the seemingly endless building, forcing me more than once to duck into a side room and press my ear to the door.

It was in one of these rooms that my luck finally turned and I found myself surrounded by piles of bags, weapons, works of art, and other seemingly random but valuable items, each tagged with a tiny note listing a date and location. Throwing myself into the mounds of goods, I burrowed frantically, and was soon rewarded by my own pack, its tag noting the circumstances of its theft. Tearing it open, I discovered everything as I had left it, with the notable exception of the missing puzzle box. Such losses bothered me little, however, and with a lightened heart I slipped the thong of the wayfinder over my head and clutched the journal to my chest, vowing to never let either pass from my sight again. With one longing look at the piles of loot—who knows what other secrets might rest within such a trove?—I made haste for the door, only to run headlong into a bewildered youth wearing all red, approaching from the direction of the sewers.

We stared at one another for a few surprised seconds, then
I kicked him hard in the knee and sprinted the other way.
Behind me, his cries of alarm as he went down were answered by other voices, and the clank of weapons sounded from several directions.

A staircase loomed up suddenly in front of me, and without thinking, I took it, taking the steps two or three at a time. Ahead of me, sunlight slanted through a windowed landing, broken only by the brace of red-garbed guards who came charging down the stairs, swords drawn. I was out of options. Summoning up the last of my strength, I put my head down and charged, backpack held in front of me like a shield. The surprised guards' blades whistled over my head, and then I was crashing through the glass, pack protecting my newly healed skin from the jagged shards as I plunged in free-fall to the cobblestones that appeared below, tucking and rolling to spread the impact over my whole body. Above me, the guards looked on in astonishment as I tumbled to my feet, the broken glass raining down around me.

Seeing their expressions, I was unable to resist and swept my arm out in a low, mocking bow. Then I turned and raced laughing into the streets of Old Korvosa, the fresh breeze cool on my face and stones smooth beneath my bare feet.

Appendix: Exploring Korvosa

Established during the expansion of the Chelaxian Empire as the primary settlement in Varisia, Korvosa remains closely tied to its roots in devil-worshiping Cheliax and continues to be the unofficial capital of the region in the eyes of most foreigners, rivaled only by Magnimar. Korvosa is the setting of the Pathfinder Curse of the Crimson Throne Adventure Path, and further information on its web of political intrigue and infernal pacts can be found in Pathfinder volumes 7–12 and in the forthcoming Guide to Korvosa.

Appendix: Korvosa's Offal Secret

Built where the land meets the water and straddling a major river that dumps into the most prosperous clam field in Varisia, the lower sections of Korvosa face a huge, stinking problem: their own waste. Many of the sewers beneath Korvosa drain into massive cesspits to the south, but the isolated wards on Endrin Isle trust to an alternative means of disposal: otyughs. The otyughs of Korvosa have more than tripled in number (and can still only barely keep up with the city's offal) since Lord Magistrate Dess Leroung imported them from Cheliax almost two centuries ago. Large steel plugs in the streets, opened by equally massive crank-driven winches, separate the city's population from its surly waste disposers. These otyughs occasionally break out of the sewers and rampage through Old Korvosa, where they're subsequently corralled and incarcerated again by guardsmen wielding longspears coated in tranquilizing poisons.

Belly of the Beast

By Mike McArtor and James L. Sutter

12 Erastus, 4707 ar

Curiosity is Man's greatest blessing, that which most distinguishes him from the beasts of the field. The drive to discover, to question convention and unveil secrets, has lifted us up from the dirt, birthed science and culture, brought us both the arcane and the divine. It has made us masters of heaven and earth, and taught us to know the minds of the very gods themselves. In the Pathfinder, this need for truth has been honed to a needle point, an obsession, and one might well argue that in this purity of purpose, we most embody Man's reason for existence on this world.

But gods, sometimes it makes us stupid.

For the first few days after my escape, my braggadocio ran high, and it was enough merely to have recovered my journal and wayfinder. As, in truth, it ought to be—I've no need for further trouble, and I'm no closer to identifying my ioun stone than when I left Kaer Maga a month ago. Yet as the hours roll on, I find myself more and more reluctant to saddle my horse and show this festering hellhole my back. Instead of fulfilling my mission, all I can think about is that puzzle box, and how the thieves seemed to know it on sight, finding it worthwhile enough to jump an armed (if admittedly foolish and inebriated) man and ride halfway across Varisia to turn it over to—whom? What have I stumbled into? And what role does my box play in it? Try as I might, I just can't bring myself to turn my back on such questions. I've got to go back in, got to take back what's mine and find someone who can tell me more. That might be easier said than done, though—something tells me that, whoever these people are, they aren't going to be caught unawares a second time. If I'm going to do this, I'll need help.

So I'll bring in a specialist.

12 Erastus, 4707 ar

Evening

Adventurers and mercenaries never really retire. They die, sometimes gloriously in a bard's song, sometimes coughing up their own organs in a muddy battlefield, rarely in bed. Or they live, ruling a nation or on the run, constantly looking over their shoulder.

And some of them—perhaps the luckiest—simply fade away.

Given the nature of what I had to suggest, I figured it prudent to wait until nightfall, nursing a glass of bad whisky at a dive bar just north of the Icon of Man Ascendant in Northgate. The bartender, while the surly balding sort, didn't seem to find it worth his time to evict me from my place at one of the outside tables, so I sat there long after the whisky was gone, watching the stretching shadows and the children playing on the statue, clambering over its sides and running between its marble limbs. I wonder, in this land of monuments, is this how the ancients would see us today? Children running beneath the feet of giants. Finally, the sun set completely and parents called their broods home. I pulled my cloak tight around me and joined the crowd, weaving my way through the streets to Mainshore.

I walked slowly, and the shop was dark when I finally approached. Though lamps along the street cast a warm orange glow across the cobbles, in the shadow of the stoop I was no more than a whisper of movement as I removed the lockpicks from my pocket and went to work. While not one of my prouder childhood skills, there are some things you never forget, and this lock was easier than I had expected. Before long I felt the satisfying metallic pop as the bolt slid back and the handle turned. Scanning the street to make sure I wasn't seen, I cracked the door and slithered inside, closing it ever so softly behind me.

The storefront was empty, the long counter packed with racks of strange weapons and adornments displayed neatly on thick swaths of exotic fabrics. On the walls, tapestries depicted landscapes the likes of which few in this city will ever see—sailing vessels skirting the Eye of Abendigo, the crowded markets of Vudra, and the golden pagoda temples of distant Qin. Freestanding silver torch-sconces like eight-foot-tall candlesticks, their stems rippled and twisted so the light seemed to extend all the way down their mirror-bright surfaces, stood between them. And from the ceiling hung stranger trophies yet—the head of one of the great jungle beasts they call river gluttons, or a lacquered suit of wooden armor with four arms. All of this I took in at a glance and, relaxing, stood up.

Pain lanced suddenly through my shoulder, and I froze in mid-crouch.

"That's far enough, dirtbag. Keep your hands where I can see them, and move slowly if you hope to use that arm again."

Careful to remain as still as possible, I slowly turned my head. To my right, the slender blade of a short sword extended straight down into the hollow behind my collarbone, pricking my skin and staining my filthy cloak even darker with blood. Following the blade up, I found myself staring into a woman's inverted face, her dark hair falling down around her cheeks and framing a jaw set in quiet determination.

"Sascha. Still agile as ever, I see."

Her eyes twitched slightly in surprise.

She's still got it.

"Eando?"

"The one and only."

Faster than the pain could register, she slid the sword from my shoulder and somersaulted over me, dropping from where she had clung to the lintel like a spider. Landing on her feet, she jammed the sword point between two floorboards and stood looking down at me, balled hands on hips.

"Well, get up, then. Sorry about the shoulder, but you're lucky I didn't have the alarms armed, or you'd be complaining of a lot worse. What're you doing in Korvosa, anyway? And why in the name of the gods are you breaking into my house in the middle of the night?"

I rose and found myself staring up into her eyes. Even now, the years hadn't shortened her any. To those who didn't know better, she might have been a comical sight—a bulky, middle-aged woman swaddled in a thick woolen dressing gown, black hair shot with gray and every inch the scolding matron, save for the well-oiled blade at her side. They might have written her off, and that would have been their mistake—and possibly their last. For even through the robe, I could see that the fat of years overlaid ropy muscle, and her eyes still moved restlessly from place to place with the urgency of a hunter.

"Nice bathrobe," I said.

"Hmph. Can't say you look much better. Come on and sit, I'll get us some drinks and see to that scratch."

I let her lead me through a beaded curtain and back into a cozy apartment even more packed with oddities than her shop. Sitting me down at a battered wooden table, she produced an unlabeled bottle of what smelled like sour rotgut and took a long pull before pouring a liberal amount into my wound, where it stung like a thousand ants. As she carefully stitched my shoulder back together, I told her the story of my escape from the strange gang lair. I finished right as she did, and at my description of the guards I'd narrowly avoided, she suddenly gripped my wounded shoulder hard, making me wince.

"Ow—what?"

She moved around me to seat herself in the only other chair, facing me across the unvarnished surface of the table, and I was surprised to see her expression grim.

"What color did you say they were they wearing?" she asked.

"Crimson... all the same shade, head to foot. Even the hilts of their swords. Seemed kind of foppish, really. Why?"

She reached for the bottle and took another long pull.

"You poor, poor fool," she said. "You really have no idea how lucky you are, do you?"

I said nothing, so she continued.

"You didn't just drop into any old thieves' guild, Eando. There's only one group in Korvosa that would dare wear robes like that, or need a safe house of the size you've described, for that matter. Surely somewhere in your chronicles you've heard of the Red Mantis?"

The name set off a warning bell somewhere in the back of my skull, but she was warming to her topic and kept going.

"Kline, these guys are bad news. The Mantis has its claws in a dozen countries at least, and probably owns politicians in a dozen more. They aren't just thieves—they're assassins, and the best in the business. Totally ruthless. These guys don't care who gets in their way as long as they take out their target, and they always take out their target. You're a fine Pathfinder, but you mess with the Mantis and that diary of yours is going to be awful short."

"Well then," I said, "looks like I'll be needing some help getting back in, doesn't it?"

She stared at me in stunned silence for a moment, then burst out laughing.

"Are you kidding? I haven't run a job in years! I'm retired. I've got my shop, and a nice little nest egg tucked away besides. I won't deny we had some good times—and gods know, I owe you almost as many favors as you owe me—but my adventuring days are done. And to tell you the truth, I don't miss them at all. I'm happy to help you fence whatever relics you come across in your ramblings, but I'm out. Give me a nice warm bed and a pouch full of gold over a dirty bedroll and a pinched breakfast, I say."

"Sure you do," I replied with a sneer. "You never get bored being a merchant, never miss the rush of night air on your skin or the whistle of your knife in the dark. That's why your sword's still polished bright, why you can still hang from the ceiling with ease. I'm sure those skills come in useful when negotiating with the dreamy nobles who buy these knick-knacks won by someone else's blood. You never lie awake at night, listening to the footsteps in the dark and imagining one last run. Not you."

She glared at me. "What you're suggesting is suicide," she said.

I smiled.

"Then they'll never expect it, will they?"

14 Erastus, 4707 ar

Our planning went late into the night, and the next day was spent in bed, waiting and resting as best we could, not knowing when we'd next get the chance. As night fell, I made my preparations, being sure to tie my journal, wayfinder, and ioun stone directly to my body beneath my armor with strips of linen. They'd probably be safe in Sascha's shop, but I wasn't about to take any chances this soon after recovering them. I was debating how much rope to take when I heard a rustle and turned to see Sascha come through the curtain.

The change was absolute. Instead of the gown, she wore a studded leather jerkin over a long-sleeve leather shirt, both of them bearing scars from repeated patching. Straps held thick leather bracers to her arms, with a dagger strapped under the left one, and similar tie-downs held gold-inlaid steel greaves to her shins. An elaborately decorated Losen half-skirt wrapped around her waist beneath a jewel-encrusted belt to complete the ensemble. The sword from last night was back in her hand, but now it glowed with a pale blue fire that she quenched with a flick of her wrist. Only the smattering of gray in her hair and a slight strain on the straps of her armor paid homage to time's passing.

"Good to see you can still fit into the old thing," I said.

"Go to hell, Eando," she responded with a smile.

We left by the back door and moved west, crossing into Ridgefield and then to the northern end of the Avenue of Arms and the intersection where I had cornered the elf previously. We were crossing the square when a scream rang out from behind me, savage and bestial, and I whirled around in a half-crouch, hand on my sword. Sascha's outflung arm hit me across the chest, holding me in place.

"Easy, Eando. It's just the Company. Look."

She pointed upward, and my eyes rose to where a hippogriff perched atop the peak of the Great Tower. From a saddle on its back, a black-clad rider watched the city below, dark cloak fluttering in the breeze. Then the great beast cried again, its eagle-head voicing a fearsome hunting call, and the pair leapt into the air, winging swiftly over the rooftops and out of sight.

"What the hell was that?" I asked.

"The Sable Company," she replied, turning me back in the direction we had been traveling. "The city guard in Korvosa is one of the most honest I've encountered, upholding the law out of love for Abadar as much as for the king, but no power in Korvosa goes unchecked for long. The Sable Company men are the best of the best, and while the guard reports to the king, the Company takes orders only from the Seneschal of Castle Korvosa. Both are used primarily to police the city, but the unspoken understanding is that if either the king or the seneschal ever went bad, the other would still have the means to take him down and cut the head off the snake. You've got to love a military order whose entrance oaths include the promise of regicide, but that's Korvosa for you. Here, even the good guys keep tabs on one another."

"Sounds like your kind of place."

"Oh, it is. It is."

We continued on, and before long we were crossing the bridge into the cesspool that is Old Korvosa. Retracing my steps from a few days before, we moved through Bridgefront and into Garrison Hill, where we turned and followed the hill's curve around to the northeast, ending along the same waterfront lane full of fishermen. We made our way to the little window I had slid through before, and much to my surprise, it was still shattered. Sascha sighed a little, and I knew her thoughts, for they were also mine: if they didn't bother fixing the window, it meant they had abandoned the safe house. Or is that just what they wanted us to think? I had to know for sure. Searching carefully for traps, I knelt down and peeked inside.

Empty. Not even a smear of blood to mark the desperate struggle of a few days ago. Slipping a small crowbar from my belt, I quickly and quietly cleared the rest of the glass shards from around the frame. With Sascha standing guard, I slipped through the window and set down softly on the floor. Behind me, Sascha leapt lightly to the ground.

The key I had recovered from the elf opened the same door in the floor, and we crept quietly down into the sewers, swords drawn and more certain than ever that we were walking into a trap. Why else would the Mantis have left their back door wide open? We made our way to the large open pit, but this time there were no massive otyughs slopping around in the muck. It didn't make me feel any better.

As I slipped around the edge of the arch onto the ledge encircling the cesspit, Sascha suddenly grabbed my arm and pulled me back. Pressing us flat against the wall, she twitched a hand to point past me toward our destination, to where a dark, hulking creature slouched in the shadows of the exit passage: a troll, and armed.

I held my breath, but it was too late—the troll had already seen us. He loped toward us with remarkable speed and, even as we backed farther into the corridor, he roared and swung his massive spiked club with all his might. The swing went wide, but the masonry corner next to my head exploded in a cloud of shrapnel that stung my face. Before the dust settled or the troll could draw back his club for another attempt, Sascha slid in under the troll's grasp and plunged her blade low into its abdomen in a smooth, perfect thrust that squelched out his back between his shoulder blades. But instead of the expected gout of blood, the thing merely shuddered once and straightened, his hands grasping for the blade as he gave a rumbling, imbecilic chuckle.

Don't these things ever die?

"Oh, right," Sascha said, and twisted the sword's hilt.

Blue flames lit up the blade, still sheathed in the troll's flesh, and he roared in pain as he threw himself backward off of the burning sword, foul smoke rising from the seared edges of the wound. Taking his club in both hands, he swung with renewed vigor, just barely missing my shoulder. Despite my lack of flaming blade, I hacked hard at the beast, hoping to at least distract him. To my surprise, my sword cut deep into his hip, and the troll's step faltered, bringing him stumbling into me. Wrenching the sword from my hand, he pulled the blade free and flung it down the hall with a clatter, his flesh knitting together before my eyes. Bringing his sharp-nosed face directly in line with mine, he drew back his lips and bared a row of pointed fangs, his fetid breath hot on my face. Weaponless, I did the only thing I could think of: I smiled back, and patted his warty, filthy cheek.

It was all the distraction Sascha needed. Slipping around behind it, she plunged her sword directly into the point where skull met spine, driving it in almost to the hilt. I have no idea if the creature even felt it—one second he was ready to gnaw off my face, and the next he coughed once and collapsed, bearing me to the ground in an avalanche of stinking flesh. Trying hard not to retch, I eventually managed to kick my way free of the beast. Casually wiping her blade on the troll's corpse, Sascha held out my own sword.

"Try and hold on to this next time," she said, and I snatched it without response.

We waited a few minutes to listen for reinforcements, but at last the stench got to us and we passed down the corridor the troll had guarded until we reached the spot where I had climbed up the first time. There we found a few pine needles and dirty hay, but no raised dais. In quick whispers, I explained the situation to Sascha, and she replied by sheathing her blade and deftly scampering up the wall to push open the trap door. A heartbeat later, she slipped into the room and let the panel fall shut quietly behind her.

A tense moment passed in silence, then the trap door reopened and a crimson form slid through, landing with a crunch at my feet. I kicked his body into the narrow channel of filth next to me and accepted Sascha's hand, scrambling up into the mudroom beyond. Together, we slipped through the wide corridors of the safe house, keeping to the shadows and making barely a sound. Despite the sizeable halls, the place seemed strangely empty, and the slightest movement rang like a gong in the heavy quiet.

Partway down the main thoroughfare, we suddenly heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and I pulled Sascha into a thankfully unoccupied storeroom, leaving the door open the tiniest crack. Through it, we watched as three men moved down the hall we had just vacated, two of them laboring to carry a heavy chest between them. All three were dressed in red, but while the two chest-bearers were bareheaded and wore the robes I was familiar with, the third was another story entirely. Instead of robes, his chest and legs were encased in brilliant, blood-red leather armor that looked as supple as skin, with a flowing cloak cast regally over one shoulder. His arms were wrapped in strips of scarlet cloth, from which protruded wicked barbs like knife-blades. Most impressive, however, was his helmet, a strange affair with a closed facemask that made his head look for all the world like that of a massive insect, two smoky crystal lenses protecting his eyes. They passed us by without notice. Exchanging a glance, Sascha and I slid out into the hall behind them, keeping to the shadows. They entered the mudroom, and from outside we could hear the leader call out a name. Once. Twice.

I looked at Sascha. We couldn't risk an alarm. She nodded.

It seems the Red Mantis has earned its reputation.

We went in fast and hard. With the silence I remembered so fondly, Sascha moved lightly across the room to one of the men with the chest and grabbed him around the throat from behind, sliding her dagger flat between his ribs. He collapsed, dropping the chest with a loud crash and eliciting a cry from the other man. By then, I was already in the air, leaping over the corpse and bringing my blade in line with his eye. At the last moment, he ducked, avoiding my sword but bringing his head within range of my knee. I twisted to bring it up with the full force of my momentum, and his face crumpled like a sack full of eggs. With a bloody gurgle, he dropped.

By this time, the leader was on his feet and had drawn his sword, a strangely barbed weapon like a saw-toothed sabre. Sascha closed the door to the mudroom as the leader and I stared at each other.

"You again," the red-clad man murmured, his voice ringing strangely inside his helmet. "You caused quite a fuss on your last visit. So good of you to stop back by and make things right."

"Really," I said, "it was nothing."

The three of us darted from side to side, too cramped in the room to truly circle, until at last the man saw an opening and lunged at me. Sascha caught his blade high on her own and I moved in for the kill, but the man kicked fast and caught me a numbing blow on the shin that nearly swept my feet out from under me. I turned my recovery into a savage upward thrust, but the Mantis danced out of the way, somehow avoiding Sascha's slash to the throat. He flowed between us like water, seemingly everywhere at once, and despite our concerted efforts he nearly had us. Only the fact that, with the two of us working in concert, he could not afford to counterattack saved our lives and allowed us to slowly back him into a corner.

Eventually the minor nicks and scratches we had managed to inflict seemed to take their toll, and the Mantis's movements began to slow. His blade beats became weaker, his ripostes slower, and Sascha and I knew that, tough as he was, even the greatest fighter will drop from exhaustion if tested long enough. It was only a matter of time.

Or so we thought. At last, the Mantis slumped to one knee, his blade held above him in a feeble defense. Sascha moved in for the kill, and in our eagerness we noticed too late the free hand thrust into a concealed pocket. In one deft move, he rolled to the side, tossing down a small clay ball that shattered with a flash of light and a deafening bang. When vision returned, the room was empty, and through the ringing in our ears we could hear shouts of alarm from elsewhere in the building.

"Hell," I said, and looked to the open trap door, but Sascha was already kneeling in front of the chest, handling her lockpicks like an artist with his brushes. With a triumphant click, the lid popped free, and Sascha threw it wide.

When I first saw them carrying the chest, I had hoped against hope to find my puzzle box inside. Instead, I found myself staring down at two rows of them, stacked like bricks within the padded case, each of them carved with a unique arrangement of human skulls and other morbid imagery. I looked at Sascha.

"This good enough?" she asked.

"Yeah," I breathed. "Yeah, I think it is."

Each of us grabbed two of the boxes and tucked them under our arms, leaving our sword arms free for whatever lay ahead. Then, with the sound of running feet approaching from the hall, we dropped into the sewer, and were gone.

Appendix: Castle Korvosa

Built atop a massive flat-topped pyramid, the citadel of Castle Korvosa rises to almost twice the pyramid's height to make it by far the tallest structure in Korvosa.

The pyramid once served as a vital strategic and religious site for the native Shoanti. When the Chelish settlers moved onto the mainland from Endrin Isle (the island on which Old Korvosa stands), it took them nearly fifteen years to finally and decisively expel the Shoanti from the pyramid. After that time, the people of Korvosa built the first citadel walls atop the pyramid and gained control of Korvosa Peninsula in the process.

Over time, many different leaders have added to the citadel, building up from the top of the pyramid in a variety of styles and for an assortment of reasons. The castle's South Tower, the most recently completed and tallest addition, looms over the rest of the citadel and the city. Its claw-like tip scrapes the sky at nearly 600 feet above the base of the pyramid.

Appendix: Speaking Korvosan

The people of Korvosa universally speak Chelaxian but have, over time, created their own slang and terminology unique to the city. These are some of the terms one might hear while passing through the city.

Arbiter: Korvosan judge. Arbiters wield a great deal of judicial power in the city.

Chel: While in most of the world this word is considered a mildly inappropriate term for someone of Chelish descent, in Korvosa it has evolved into a vicious ethnic slur.

Copper Pinch: Korvosan copper piece. Usually referred to simply as a "pinch" (plural and singular). Among children, calling multiple copper coins "pinches" often elicits playful tweaks on the arm or backside.

Gater: Someone who lives in Northgate.

Gold Sail: Korvosan gold piece. Always called by its full name to differentiate it from the similar term "sail" (see below).

Moth: A full-blooded Varisian.

Pincher: A very poor person who scrapes by on only a few copper pieces a month.

Platinum Crown: Korvosan platinum piece. Often referred to as simply a "crown."

Sail: A ship.

Shingles: The rooftop highways and temporary residences above the city.

Silver Shield: Korvosan silver piece. Frequently called by its full name to differentiate it from the shields used for protection.

Vaults: Any underground opening beneath Korvosa.

Of Endings and Beginnings

By James L. Sutter

18 Erastus, 4707 ar

"I still think I could open it."

I snorted. "I'm sure you could. And if what came out was a swarm of flesh-eating locusts or a thousand souls of the hungry dead, what then? Or do you think those screaming skulls embossed all over it are just for decoration?"

"Humph. If it's really that dangerous, I'm not sure how I feel about leaving the others in my shop. Besides, it's probably just somebody's jewelry box." Sascha crossed her arms over her leather jerkin and picked up the pace, her long strides eating up the cobblestone street, but I could tell that she wasn't truly peeved. "Well, it's a moot point now. We're here." She pointed.

Rising up before us, the hall was a work of gothic genius, all tapered spires and leering gargoyles. Even for those satellite buildings set apart from the main campus, the Acadamae was easily recognizable. My hand went instinctively to my sword.

"And you trust this man?" I asked, for the third time that morning.

"As much as I trust any wizard, which is just barely. But Devoren has identified plenty of items for me in the past, and he's always played fair and paid full market for whatever he decides to pick up for himself." Brushing past me, she danced nimbly up the marble steps and rapped hard on the doors. Somewhere inside, a bell chimed.

Without warning, a disembodied voice rang clear in my ear, as if the speaker were standing by my side. "Who seeks entrance?" it croaked. "State your name and purpose."

"Sascha Antif-Arah," Sascha responded easily to the empty air. "Here to see the Sage Devoren, by appointment. This is my comrade, Eando Kline."

There was a momentary silence, and then the doors in front of us cracked and swung open of their own accord. Beyond, a wizened, white-haired man in purple livery stood next to a small writing desk.

"You're expected," the doorman said in the voice from the doorstep. "Please follow me." He turned and strode off down the long, wood-paneled hall, not bothering to look behind him to see if we followed. Sascha nudged me into motion, and we fell into step a few paces behind him.

The hall was plain and level, the thick burgundy carpet and dark wood paneling seeming to soak up the sound of our passage. Softly glowing ghost lamps floated near the ceiling at regular intervals, lighting our way. We traveled for long minutes, passing closed door after closed door, and soon I became convinced that there was no way the building, large as it was, could possibly contain it all. I began to remark as much to Sascha, but she cut me off with a gesture, and we walked in silence until the stooped doorman finally slowed and knocked at one of the doors, pulling himself up into a semblance of parade rest.

"Enter," said a male voice, and the doorman bowed his head as we passed into the room.

The chamber beyond was sober and elegant. High ceilings were complemented by equally towering bookshelves, and deep green carpet played counterpoint to maroon curtains girding the floor-to-ceiling window which took up most of one wall. More drapes hid what appeared to be the entrance to a well-appointed apartment. In the room's center stood a massive wooden desk, and behind it lounged a man. Shorter than me by a good deal, his eyes were sharp, and his small black beard was trimmed to a meticulous point. His dark robes were modest, yet obviously of high quality. He stood as we entered.

"Sascha! Always a pleasure. What wonders have your thieves and scholars brought us today?"

"Devoren," she replied. "Good to see you as well."

The man moved around the desk to greet us, and as he did I noticed for the first time the view out the window, which confirmed what my gut had told me—without any discernable slope to the hallway, we appeared to have climbed several stories. Wizards.

Devoren clasped hands with both of us, then seated himself on the lip of his desk and gestured for the doorman to leave, which the little man did with a bow, closing the door behind him.

Without hesitation, Sascha pulled out the strange steel puzzle box and handed it to him. Devoren twirled it slowly in his hands several times, peering at it intensely, before setting it carefully down on the desk.

"Where did you get this?" he asked.

In answer, Sascha launched into our carefully pruned version of the truth, telling how I'd taken it off the corpse of a courier at the edge of the Mushfens, but neglecting to mention its subsequent theft.

"You didn't open it yet, did you?"

Sascha shook her head.

"Good," Devoren replied. "While I can't tell offhand exactly what charms are warding this piece, there's obviously more here than just an elaborate lock. The design as a whole I don't recognize, but judging by the auras, somebody obviously put a lot of time or coin into this. Probably both. And you see this here?" He pointed at one of the carvings, and Sascha and I leaned in closer. "That's a Taldoran death's head. Not something you see a whole lot anymore, but a clear warning of danger to anyone who recognizes it." He stopped again and peered closer at the tiny, screaming skull. "And to those who don't, I suppose," he conceded. There was a long pause in which he seemed to forget we were there. Finally Sascha cleared her throat loudly, and he started back into the present.

"Well enough," said Sascha. "But I'm more concerned with whatever's inside it. Can you get through the wards?"

"What?" He was staring at the box. "Oh, yes, yes. Give me two days. I should have everything sorted out by then. Usual rates."

"Agreed," said Sascha. She paused a moment, and when no more words were forthcoming, took me by the shoulder and said, "We'll just let ourselves out." We moved back into the hall and closed the door on the wizard, leaving him sitting on his desk and musing over the box, deep in thought.

20 Erastus, 4707 ar

Hellhounds are everything their name implies.

Two days later, we returned at the appointed time and repeated the process, following the little doorman up to Devoren's quarters. This time the room was dark, the curtains drawn across the great window, and the warm study lit by candles. The wizard greeted us with a smile and motioned to two chairs in front of the desk, which we took. The box was not in evidence.

"So what did you find out, Devoren?" Sascha asked. "Where's our box?"

The sage smiled again, this time sheepishly.

"I'm sorry to report that there were... complications," he replied. "I had my strongest countercharms in place, but there was a hidden evocation failsafe I was unable to detect. When I moved to open it, the entire thing burst into flames—if I hadn't placed wards around it, my whole workshop could have gone up! Of course, I'll be happy to pay whatever you think it might reasonably have been worth, but..."

He pressed on, making further excuses, but I slumped back in the chair, defeated. After all my effort, riding halfway across Varisia, nearly getting my throat slit multiple times—nothing. Not even the chance to see what the box contained. I put my hand over my eyes and did my best to control my breathing, lest I throttle the useless wizard. I could tell that beside me, Sascha was having the same reaction.

Suddenly something the wizard said caught my attention.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" I asked.

"I just said that there's an upside to all this," Devoren repeated, eager to regain our favor. "Now that I've figured out the box's wards, there should be no problem opening the others. In fact, I think that—"

I cut him off.

"Devoren," I said quietly, "who said anything about others?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sascha stiffen. My hand on my sword, I stood up slowly.

A single bead of sweat ran down the wizard's cheek.

"Well, I—I mean, I assumed—"

"I did," said a familiar voice, and the curtains to Devoren's apartment parted to admit a tall, well-dressed Chelish man with gray-streaked hair. As he spoke, the curtains behind him and over the window rustled, disgorging four Korvosan Guards with truncheons drawn.

"I'm—I'm sorry, Sascha," pleaded Devoren, who was standing now, his hands clasped in entreaty. "I didn't want to turn you in, but your friend's gone too far this time. Lord Briasus is a very well-respected man, and to steal from his private collection is a serious crime... I have his promise that you'll receive a fair trial, and I'm sure the jury will understand that you knew nothing about—"

"Guards," the nobleman broke in, "these two invaded my residence and stole a number of priceless artifacts. By the laws of this city, I demand that they be taken and brought before the arbiters."

Finally the voice clicked.

"Sascha!" I yelled. "It's him! It's the Mantis who—"

And then they were upon us.

I started to draw my sword, but Sascha's shout stopped me. "These are city guards!" she cried, heaving over the massive desk to block the guards advancing from the apartment. "They're the good guys. Do you want us to be executed?" She caught up one of the heavy chairs we had been sitting in and swung it hard and fast in a wide arc, bringing it down on one of the guards' shoulders and driving him to the floor. Following her lead, I stepped in close to his partner and delivered my best uppercut, catching him flush on the chin and snapping his head back in a spray of blood and spit. Then something hard and weighted caught me on the back of my head and buckled my knees. I went down, and from the floor I could see Briasus standing calmly in the corner, apparently confident that the guards could handle us.

A boot came down hard between my shoulder blades, pinning me to the ground, and I was forced to admit that he might be right.

"This is suicide, Kline!" Sascha yelled. She stood with her back to a corner, holding two more guards at bay with a pair of chairs, as if she were a lion tamer. "Get us out of here!" Catching a glancing blow from Sascha's chair, one of the guards dropped his truncheon and drew his sword.

That was it. Drawing my dagger, I reached back and slammed it into the calf of the guard behind me, sending him screaming to the ground. Before he could recover I took two steps and leapt over the table, straight into Devoren. Locking one arm around his chest, I swung him between the guards and me, my dagger pressing hard enough to draw blood from his frantically bobbing larynx.

"Nobody move!" I screamed. "Take one step, and I swear to the gods I will end this bastard here and now!"

To my surprise, they didn't. To a man, the guards took one look at the blood seeping slowly from the mage's throat and put up their swords. Behind them, I could see Briasus looking back and forth from me to the guards, obviously weighing the merits of keeping his identity hidden versus taking me apart.

"Alright, here's what's going to happen," I said, doing my best to keep my voice level. "Devoren, you're going to use your magic to transport Sascha and me out of here safely. In exchange, we let you live. Sound fair?"

He started to nod, then thought better of it and agreed hoarsely.

"Good," I said. "I'm not going to give you a destination and risk these bastards hearing it, so you just pick a place and take us there, but know that if you try anything cute, like popping us into a jail cell or off a cliff, it'll be the last thing you ever do. Now do it."

With the sage mincing on his tiptoes in an effort to avoid my knifepoint, the two of us marched awkwardly across the room until we stood next to Sascha. Then, grabbing both our arms, Devoren began to chant, liquid syllables that rolled off his tongue and brushed past our ears without being retained. Around us, the room twisted and blurred, and my grip on my dagger tightened. There was a momentary feeling of weightlessness, and then the world untwisted itself again and we found ourselves on the doorstep of a modest townhouse, just a few blocks from the still-visible front door of the Acadamae building.

"There," Devoren said, sweating with exertion. "I've done as you asked. May I please go?"

"Certainly," I said, removing my dagger from his chin. Then I swung hard and brought the pommel down on the back of his head, sending him crumpling to the pavement.

"Eando!" Sascha yelled, appalled.

"What?" I asked. "He'll live. Come on, let's get out of here."

23 Erastus, 4707 ar

We were fools to think it would be so easy.

For three days we laid low in one of the cheaper inns in Old Dock, leaving only under cover of darkness, and then only to do covert walk-bys of Sascha's shop. I was sitting on the mite-infested bed, counting out my meager supply of coins, when Sascha returned from the last one.

"Well?" I asked.

"The same," she said, removing the heavy cloak that shrouded her form, then hanging it on a hook. "Still no sign of surveillance. No guards, no suspicious characters, no magical auras—nothing. It looks like they've either forgotten about us or decided to leave us be."

"Which is exactly why I don't like it," I said, scooping up the coins and dumping them back into my purse.

"Me either," she agreed. "Neither the Mantis nor the Korvosan Guard are known for their leniency."

"And there's no chance that they might have legitimately overlooked your shop?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"Not hardly," she said. "Unless you think Devoren suddenly grew a spine and decided to cover up our names."

I snorted. "So it's a trap."

"Yup."

"And we're going in anyway."

"Yup."

"I'll get my coat."

Outside, the two of us moved quickly and silently through the city's restless darkness, keeping our faces hidden within our cloaks as best we could. When at last we arrived at Sascha's street, it was as she said—quiet, dark, and seemingly unobserved. My skin itched with unseen eyes.

"You're sure this is necessary?" I asked.

"Listen, tomb-robber, you got me into this mess, and I'll be damned if I'm going to hear any whining from you now. I don't know how long it'll be before things cool down, or if any of my property will still be here when it does. I need to pick up some coins and choice items to get me through, and you still want those damn boxes, so buck up or shut up. We're going in. Ready?"

I nodded.

Together, we slipped through the shadows beneath the eaves, passing the door and going straight for the window. With me standing guard, Sascha quickly glued a piece of cloth to the glass, then shattered it silently with a rap of her dagger. With the window unlocked, we slid into the showroom. Everything was in its place: animal heads and bizarre weapons, knick-knacks and trinkets from the far corners of Golarion. Motioning me toward the counter, she slipped through the beaded curtain into the living chambers.

And screamed.

I was there in two long steps, tearing down beads as I lunged through the curtain, sword half-drawn, and slammed into Sascha's back, stopping short. There, in front of her, was the largest dog I had ever seen. Red eyes glowed above a muzzle of glistening teeth, and bladed spurs of bone punctured skin that looked burnt, and indeed still smoldered in places. From between the dripping fangs, wisps of smoke rose toward the ceiling. Behind the hound, seated incongruously on the rumpled bed, sat a massive figure in armor, his helm and breastplate worked into elaborate demonic devices.

The Order of the Nail gladly uses any means necessary to enforce the law.

"All prey is the same," boomed a voice from within the helmet. "The hunter's greatest asset is patience, the ability to remain still. Eventually, the quarry always comes."

He stood, and his spiked helm nearly brushed the ceiling. In front of me, Sascha let out a little moan.

"Hellknight," she whispered, eyes still wide.

"Correct," the deep voice intoned, inclining its head in a mocking bow. "Of the Order of the Nail. Both of you will surrender yourselves to me for judgment."

"And who are you to judge us?" I blustered, moving around Sascha. "You're no guardsman, so you have no authority. We haven't broken any of your laws."

"All laws are my laws."

And then several things happened very quickly. With a gesture from the hellknight, the hound sprang, the smoke sucked back into its maw as it inhaled mightily. As I raised my sword in a futile thrust, Sascha grabbed me and threw something past my shoulder, drawing me backward with one hand over my eyes. Suddenly there was a massive flash and a noise like thunder, and then a wave of heat as flames erupted from the spot I had stood a moment before. As we sprinted through the shopfront, we could hear muffled curses behind us, and a long excited howl. We had barely reached the door when the hound emerged from the back room, fur ablaze. Silently, it leapt for us, but as we passed the final display case, Sascha grabbed a nondescript pouch and flung it. There was a wet popping noise, and then a snort of surprise as the hound found itself glued to the floorboards by a mess of sticky strands. Without looking back, we exploded out into the street.

"What the hell is going on here?" I screamed as we rounded the first corner.

"Shut up and run!" was Sascha's only response.

Behind us, the hound bayed again.

28 Erastus, 4707 ar

Damn it, Sascha. You were supposed to be retired.

With the trap at Sascha's shop sprung unsuccessfully, the powers that be in Korvosa forsook any pretense of subtlety. At guard posts around the city, handbills with our names and likenesses were tacked to walls. At the gates, carts were searched, and anyone near our size and shape detained and questioned. It appeared that Briasus had the ear of someone high up in the Guard, and the reward offered for our capture was more than generous.

I'd have been flattered, if we weren't totally screwed.

When we had finally collapsed after our initial escape from the shop, I lay gasping against the side of a crumbling warehouse and refused to move until Sascha explained things.

"That," she panted, "was a hellknight—one of the Order of the Nail. I trust you've heard of them?"

I had run across mentions of them in the past, but had never paid them any mind, as they were primarily a Chelaxian affair. I nodded, unable to speak.

"They're independents, beholden to no one here, but they occasionally take up bounties and other tasks for the city. They're militant freaks, worship nothing except absolute law, but they're good—very good. Sooner or later, he'll find us."

"And the hound?"

"A fiend in a dog's skin, called up from the Pit itself to track us. Why do you think they call them hellknights?"

For close to a week, we dared not even take a room in a flophouse for fear of recognition, and we slept in stables and beneath carts, once even in the Vaults. Everywhere we went, it seemed the eyes of the crowd followed our movements, and several nights we heard from far off the sound of the terrible hound's baying. Finally, after a particularly despicable evening, Sascha had enough.

"That's it," she said, throwing down the half-cooked rat we had been contemplating for supper. "There's nothing for it. We have to get out of the city."

"Oh?" I asked, scooping up the steaming carcass and wiping it on my pants. "And how do you propose we do that?"

"It's time to call in some favors," she said, standing. Without another word, she strode off into the darkness, and I followed, munching the rat philosophically. Again we slunk through the streets, furtively in shadows and boldly where anything else would draw attention. Dawn was kissing the rooftops as we stopped at a hovel in the depths of Bridgefront. Sascha pounded three times on the scavenged steel grating that made up the door. From inside came a faint scrabbling, as of tiny feet, which suddenly changed timbre to that of someone stumbling around.

"Whassat?" a man's voice called.

"Open up, Irvine," Sascha whispered. "It's Sascha."

Waymerchants may be useful, but I still don't trust them.

The door cracked open to reveal a beady eye, then was thrown open as a greasy little man with a pinched, rat-like face opened rag-clad arms in welcome, ushering us inside.

"Such a pleasure!" the man crowed, and then slightly softer, "Sought by ev'ry guard in the city, and she visits m'self! Truly, an honor fit for a king."

"Can it, Irvine," Sascha said, shutting the door firmly behind us. "I take it you know why we're here."

"Of course, of course." The weaselly man stank even worse than we did. His hands moved nervously as he talked, picking bits of leaves from his hair, but his voice betrayed no anxiety.

"I'm not sure I do," I said. "Sascha, who is this guy?"

"Irvine's a Rat's Teat Boy," she said. "A second-story man. His gang knows every tunnel in the Vaults, and can get you into any house or shop in the city. Or out of it."

"It's a talent of my people," said Irvine proudly, his nose twitching.

"Wait a second," I pressed. "If he's such a fabulous burglar, why's he living in this hellhole?"

"Poor fiscal responsibility," he grinned.

"Irvine has something of a gambling problem," Sascha drawled. "Not to mention drinking and whoring problems."

"I'm a social animal, I am," Irvine added.

"Fine, whatever," I replied. "What'll it take to get us out of the city undetected?"

"Wells, now, seeing how we're friends and all, I reckon it'll be jus' a shade over the reward they're postin', to be paid no later than a month from now." He brazenly patted Sascha's bottom, and I was astonished to see that he kept his hand. "No worries. I knows yer good for it."

Through gritted teeth, Sascha growled, "Deal. And we leave now."

"As ye wish, m'lady," the little man bowed.

Pausing only to recover a grimy pack and a hooded lantern—"Fer ye 'n the missus," he explained—Irvine led us out of Bridgefront and back onto the mainland, finally stopping near a large drainage pipe at the water's edge, hidden by the wreckage of a burned-out cannery. Heaving aside several concealing boards, he said, "Here's yer out. Once upon a time, taxes was different, and this tunnel was used to sneak fish outta the city without paying. Then laws changed, and it was forgotten. It'll get ye past the wall and then some. Now if ye'll just follow me..."

He turned to enter the tunnel, and perhaps it was a blessing, for he never saw the hound that came flying over a crumbling wall to catch him in the back of the neck, jaws closing sickeningly over bone and sinew. It landed and turned, shaking the little man like a rag doll, and let loose a breath of flame that engulfed them both. As Sascha and I yelled and pawed at our weapons, an armored shape stepped out of the factory's wreckage, a massive sword held easily in one hand.

"So it goes," the hellknight intoned. "The prey that runs blindly might surprise you both, but once it calms enough to plan, its motions become predictable."

I drew my sword and started forward, but Sascha stopped me.

"No, Eando," she said, drawing her own blade. "I've got this one. You get going."

"What?!" I cried. "That's insane. Come on; together we can take him!"

"No," she said again. "You go first. I'm faster than you, and you know it—I'll buy us some time and catch you before you're halfway out. See if I don't."

I dodged to the side, but she moved with me, refusing to let me pass. I punched her back in frustration, but she stood firm. Tears sprung unbidden to my eyes.

"Sascha..." I pleaded.

"Godsdamn it, Eando, go!" She gave me a shove that sent me sprawling into the mud of the tunnel mouth. Outside, the hound moved to stand next to its master, who lifted one hand to Sascha.

"So be it," he said, and raised his sword.

At a flick of her wrist, Sascha's own blade ignited with blue flames, and she looked back at me one last time.

"Run!" she screamed, then turned and charged the hellknight.

I ran. I will not ask forgiveness, for I am owed none. When I meet my end and arrive before the gods for judgment, I will say only this: that when it all came down, I would not let my friend sacrifice herself in vain. For hours, I stumbled through the stinking tunnels, blind, sobbing, scarcely caring which turn I took, but when the end came and a circle of light burned my eyes, I found myself deposited in a grassy field. I lay there for some time, numb, then finally dragged myself up a small hill to look out over the city of Korvosa, its distant walls shot with gold in the morning light.

I don't know how long I stood there, but finally my responsibility to honor Sascha's gift returned, and I found myself faced with a new question: Where to next? I was hungry and alone, left with only my sword, my pack, my journal, and my wayfinder.

The wayfinder. Of course.

Tearing the pouch from around my neck, I shook it out into my hand. With the compass came the tiny green ioun stone from Kaer Maga, the one I should have identified weeks ago, should have analyzed to determine its function and if it was safe to use in a wayfinder. I stared at them both, then looked back once more toward the city.

Screw it.

Taking the compass in one hand and the ioun stone in another, I inhaled deeply and closed my eyes, tensing my muscles for whatever was to come. Carefully, I fitted the stone into the wayfinder's empty slot.

Nothing happened.

After a long moment I opened my eyes. Nothing. No lightning shooting from my fingers, no dragons called down from the sky, no sudden inrush of knowledge or transformation into a dire bear. Nothing at all. I stared down at the compass.

And as I watched, totally still, the needle which had always pointed due north swung slowly to the east.

The Burn Run

By Michael Kortes

18 Arodus, 4707 ar

For someone who claims to be the captain of his own destiny, I seem to spend an awful lot of time taking orders from an inanimate object.

This morning, I crossed into the Cinderlands, the needle on my wayfinder continuing to point me north-northeast. Even though stopping in Kaer Maga again was no picnic, I think I miss it already. There's a reason I've put off going to the Cinderlands ever since I came to Varisia: according to every source I've consulted, it's reputed to be a hellhole, a desert-like scrubland with little to offer but parched earth, grueling heat, and predators. It's only the first day, and it's already living up to its reputation. With the shelter from the surrounding mountains, only the rare wind from the south brings any moisture, and I've come to understand that the Cinderlands are a land of collective patience: everything here—the bugs, the birds, the patchy blades of grass—are all quietly waiting for their miracle.

20 Arodus, 4707 ar

I caught sight of my first aurochs today. I had heard tales of these massive razor-horned bison, and having now seen them for myself I can report that the stories do them no justice. Crossing the land in their great herds, they appear as a storm cloud rushing low over the earth, the thunderous rumble of their hooves felt long before it's even heard. From a safe distance, I watched a group of Shoanti horsemen strategically isolate two aurochs from the herd, the tattooed barbarians bringing down the enormous animals one at a time with their short bows at exhilaratingly close range. Fortunately, I had been well warned that the Shoanti care little for outsiders in their land—depending on which tribe you encounter, contact just might be the last mistake you make. I kept my head down and waited for the impressive spectacle to pass.

Also, I have decided to alter my course slightly to the west, despite the dictate of my wayfinder. It has become harder and harder to refill my canteen out here, and if I don't stick close to the Yondabakari, my journey might end prematurely of its own accord.

21 Arodus, 4707 ar

I am afraid my journey has hit a small snag. Namely, my being burned alive as soon as the wind picks up. So it goes—hopefully I can secret this journal somewhere safe before it's time.

Like everything in the Cinderlands, it began with the heat—this time in the form of a wildfire. Having approached the banks of the Yondabakari, I found the succor of the grasslands once again. I cannot express how grateful my steed, Solitaire, became at the opportunity to graze until she was full. I admit I was somewhat jealous; my rations had been growing ever poorer.

But then suddenly there it was: a massive sheet of flame, driven by the wind. I've seen fire spread before, but never like this. Leapfrogging west from one patch of dry grass to the next, the fire was like a charging beast, swallowing everything in its path. Immediately I kicked Solitaire into motion and we headed for the safety of the river.

It was only a few moments later that I spotted a young Shoanti brave on foot. Just like me, he was making a beeline for the river, but without a horse there was no way he would make it.

I'm no hero, but watching a boy burned to death for no reason is beyond even me. With some cajoling of Solitaire I altered course to come up alongside the young brave and motioned for him to take my hand. By this point the flames were already licking his body, and the heat coming off of the blaze was incredible. Half-crazed, the brave seemed not to understand, so I took matters into my own hands, throwing him over my saddle and racing for the river. Hitting its banks, Solitaire plunged into the shallows, and not a moment too soon—behind us the wildfire tore a path straight up to the bank, whereupon it split to the left and right, continuing to eat every last blade of grass and shrub on the river's eastern side. Even in water up to Solitaire's flank, the flames were terrifying. Exultant, I shouted my defiance into the flames.

That's when the boy wrapped both hands around my throat and tried to crush my windpipe. Caught off guard, I flailed helplessly for several moments before recovering my wits enough to land a solid punch to his temple, dropping him into the river. He came up sputtering and screaming, cries of pure frustration, and launched himself at me again, attempting to tear me from my horse.

As I kicked at the boy to try and keep him away from Solitaire, a stampede of a dozen Shoanti horsemen burst from the flames along the bank and dashed into the water, plucking up the boy much as I had moments before. Yet instead of the expected gratitude at saving the child's life, I found myself surrounded by spearheads. I sat motionless as they tied my hands to my saddlehorn and took my reins. They swam our horses downstream as though it were no feat at all. Finding a suitable exit point, we rode in silence until we were safely beyond the wildfire's reach.

I am out of light, and will finish this tomorrow, presuming I see it. I am reasonably certain I will. Reasonably.

23 Arodus, 4707 ar

The Sun is sacred to all members of the Sklar-Quah.

I was their prisoner, yet they did not bother to disarm me. Such was the imposing presence and confidence of these Shoanti horsemen I know now as Burn Riders. From the river they paraded me into their village. A nomadic people, everything about their encampment is designed to be picked up and moved on a moment's notice—a necessity when one lives in a land subject to periodic emberstorms. Their portable aurochs-skin yurts radiated around a central ring of stones that housed a massive communal bonfire. Bordering the fire's sitting area were great woven totems, each topped with a blazing sun carving. As soon as I saw the totems, I knew I was inside a camp of Sklar-Quah, people of the Sun Clan, and my stomach clenched. According to the stories, the Sun Clan is in contention for the most warlike of all the Shoanti, and the least tolerant of foreigners.

The lead brave whistled, and soon the camp's center was filled with curious Shoanti of all ages. It is a testament to my ego that I assumed they had gathered to discuss my fate. Yet instead, all of the attention seemed focused on the boy I had rescued. Seeing my obvious interest in the proceedings, one of my captors was kind enough to explain.

It seemed the boy, Tomast, had been participating in a coming-of-age ritual to earn his standing within the tribe. After setting the wildfire themselves, the riders had placed the boy in front of it and tasked him with outrunning it. As impossible as it sounds, this is something every male Sun Clansman undergoes when he reaches the threshold of adulthood. If he has found favor with the Sun totem, he survives, and if not, the land reclaims him. Survivors may petition to join the Burn Riders, the clan's band of elite horsemen that had stolen my freedom. I don't pretend to understand how a tribe can afford to risk sacrificing its providers and still survive in such a harsh land, but they persist.

In any event, my unwanted interference had called into question the results of Tomast's trial, particularly due to my status as a "tshamek." The word means "outsider," but in the most negative of connotations—to get the right effect, you really need to spit when you say it. All tshamek apparently bear the sins of the Chelaxian invaders who drove the Shoanti from southern Varisia centuries ago. As such, my participation in the discussion of Tomast's truncated Burn Run was not tolerated—apparently, I was to be disemboweled, as tshamek are not worthy of the honor of being burned. It was difficult to hold my tongue while my hosts made casual reference to my execution, but I quickly learned that I was not to speak. A young shaman named Narast was particularly emphatic on the point, as my bruises can attest.

Despite my first impression, however, Narast was not calling the shots. He was but the apprentice for an extraordinary elder who bore both name and title of Sun Shaman, who unbeknownst to me was present the whole time, listening to his clan's debate. For the Sun Shaman was in the bonfire—or rather, he was the bonfire.

Arriving as a fire elemental makes for one hell of an entrance.

I have to admit, I was impressed by his entrance. As the discussion ground on, the counsel fire suddenly rose up and coalesced to its full height of about 15 feet, towering over me, then condensed into a wind-burnt Shoanti who quietly took his seat on a straw mat next to Narast amongst the bickering braves. Tomast continued to shout loudly at those who implied he had failed his Burn Run. As for myself, I was more interested in the Sun Shaman's views as to whether I was to live or die. I was rather hoping he might find himself in the "live" camp, but based on the Sklar-Quah I had met so far, my hopes were not high.

The Sun Shaman let everyone shout over one another for several more minutes before he spoke at last, rendering his decision. As soon as his first whisper came out, everyone fell silent. Apparently nobody talks over a guy who turns into a giant fire elemental. There was much nodding at his words, but I could tell a lot of people were unhappy. I figured that had to be a good sign. Tomast in particular was fighting to bottle his rage.

I had to wait for the translation, but apparently it was decided that Tomast would have to be re-tested. Tough break for the young one, to be sure. As soon as a suitable wind returned, another wildfire would be set, and again he would risk his life attempting to outrun the flames. "And," added my translator, "so will you." Apparently, the Sun Shaman had decreed that I was now a part of Tomast's challenge and if it was to be reconstructed, I would again have to be present. The price of my interference was that I would run alongside him.

Although none dared to disagree out loud, it was obvious that, like Tomast, the clan was displeased with the Sun Shaman's decision. I had to have it explained to me a few times, but apparently there are a few ramifications that the tribe is none too happy with. Firstly, if I survive, tradition dictates that I become part of the Quah. Although Sun Clan membership isn't what I had in mind, I do like the fringe benefit of being allowed to live.

A tshamek with membership in the Quah is not something that's particularly amusing to the clan: It borders on blasphemy, and is particularly offensive to Narast, who lost face over my involvement, since he was in charge of organizing the failed Burn Run. My sense, though, is that the clan ultimately tolerates the decision not just because it came from the Sun Shaman, but because they largely share the view that once the wind returns and the fire is re-ignited, I'll be burnt to a crisp, and further debate will become something of a moot point.

Additionally, once Tomast and I do the run together, he and I become nalharest, which I take it is something akin to a blood brother. Tomast seems insulted by this prospect, and a part of me almost wants to stick around and complete the run just to vex him. Fortunately, the part of me that intends to continue living is well aware that my best course of action is to plan my escape before the wind returns. As soon as I can find where they hid Solitaire, I'll make a break for it and take my chances.

24 Arodus, 4707 ar

You don't have to be a sage to appreciate that sunrise is an event of deep spiritual significance to the Sklar-Quah. This morning, as every morning, the entire clan, from youngest to oldest, rose to bathe in the first of the luminous red rays. With their heads drawn back, the entire clan joined in a chanted prayer in which they bore witness to the miracle that they've survived to see one more day in this harsh land. After partaking in the communal experience, even as a prisoner looking forward to getting roasted, I have to concede that I found it extremely moving.

Perhaps part of the reason I enjoyed it so much was that I, too, have reason to be thankful. There's no wind today, which means no Burn Run—for now, at least. Instead, to my surprise, Tomast has shown up at my "guest yurt" to train me. No question, he still despises me, but he treats his direction from the Sun Shaman with all seriousness.

The first order of business is that one cannot expect to survive inside a fire with a full head of hair. This accounts for why every last Burn Rider religiously shaves his head (and probably a few other places to boot). Not willing to let Tomast catch on that I have no intention of sticking around for the actual run, I decided to play along. That's right, I'm currently as bald as a baby. No tattoos though—Tomast grew quite agitated when I inquired, saying "those have to be earned."

After our little grooming session, much of the day was spent practicing breathing exercises. I humored Tomast, as he takes this part very seriously. I imagine it's a precursor to some kind of sprinting technique.

25 Arodus, 4707 ar

Even though my fascination with the Sklar-Quah's morbid manhood ritual grows daily, I still have enough rationality to know that escape is my better option. Unfortunately, this is getting tougher—while I've found where Solitaire and the other horses are sequestered, I've also pieced together why the encampment is unguarded. Those who enter and leave follow a very specific path—I remember now being struck by the zigzag route I took when the Burn Riders first brought me into the camp. Narast has laced the surrounding area with his magic so that many harmless patches of rocks and grass are illusions cast over rows of sharpened spikes. You can't tell by looking at it, but any attempt to enter or leave the camp without knowing the route is suicide. I've tested it along the camp's edge—I'd be cut to ribbons if I tried to flee through it.

I still have time, though. If I can observe enough comings and goings, I'll have the path paced-out and memorized. I still need the weather to cooperate to buy me time—the wind has got to stay calm.

27 Arodus, 4707 ar

My training with Tomast grows intense. If I didn't know better I'd say he's become proud of himself as a teacher, even though, as best I can tell, I'm a lousy student.

Today we graduated from breathing exercises to the war cry trance, a technique somewhat akin to a self-hypnosis. At one point, while I was in the throes of it, Tomast had me look down, and I discovered he had lined my legs with hot coals. Of course at that point I snapped out of the trance and screamed with abandon. After repeats of this exercise both Tomast and I have burns all over our legs. The war cry trance enables one to ignore the pain and fear of fire but not its effects—not for long, anyway.

I am impressed with Tomast, who bears his burns like badges of honor. Mine are covered with salve, and when no one is looking I have been using healing magic on the burns. I have kept the salves on though, to hide the fact that the wounds are gone.

In addition, we also practice running. We run lap after lap around the inside of the camp every morning and evening, when the Cinderlands are at their coolest. I have suggested we run outside of the camp, hoping for an excuse to learn more of the hidden route through the spiked stones, but Narast has forbidden it.

Tomast is several times more fit and youthful than I am, and his skill as a runner far outstrips mine. One thought keeps coming back to me: last time, as I saw it, he had failed to keep ahead of the wildfire. What chance do I have?

29 Arodus, 4707 ar

If I didn't know better, I'd say one of the braves actually gave me a smile today. I must be wearing them down.

In addition to the exercises in which we leap through flames, today's lesson was to actually eat fired coals. I've never been burned on the inside of my body before. No question: I should have passed out from the pain. But there's something about the war cry trance. Something almost transcendent.

In the evening, we spent time in the sweat lodge, a steam bath inside a small tent made by pouring water over red hot rocks brought in from the council fire pit. The sweat lodge, at least, is a tradition I could get used to. I am honored that Tomast shared it with me.

Although the sun has not yet come again, I need to add to my previous entry. I am so angry, yet there is nothing I can do, no one I can tell—so I write. I was returning from my nightly walk to clear my head (and study my escape) when I heard chanting from Narast's tent. I crept up to his yurt, hopeful that I might at last catch him in the act of re-setting the camp's wards and gain clues to their exact location.

Narast was indeed inside and unquestionably in the act of spellcasting, but he was up to something else entirely. I'm no expert, but I've seen enough arcane lore to recognize basics. He was manipulating the weather, calling for wind. Already as I write, the wind is picking up. The Burn Run will happen tomorrow. But if I am right, it won't be just any burn run—the wind will be fierce. Narast can't stand the thought that a tshamek just might pass the Sklar-Quah's challenge. He's got to stack the deck. I don't mind that he wants me gone. Hell, I want me out of here too. But the fact that he's prepared to burn Tomast just to get to me is going too far.

I can't tell Tomast—not yet. It would shatter the confidence he's built in the past few days. My best bet is to tell the Sun Shaman, but the chief druid is nowhere to be found. Was his absence what Narast was waiting for? And here I'd let myself think they'd accepted me. I'm such a fool.

30 Arodus, 4707 ar

Morning came and the wind was strong. Many of the Shoanti I had won over the past days glanced quickly away whenever I caught their eyes. They know what I know: that the wind is too fast for a successful Burn Run today. Yet we're going anyway.

The fire was going to be larger and faster than the flames Tomast faced last time. I only had one last card to play, one I had been sitting on for the past week. If Narast was going to cheat, so would I, with a little enchantment known among my adventuring colleagues as "expeditious retreat." The spell's energy would temporarily increase my speed, and might just give me the edge I needed to make the river and escape the flames. It wasn't a great plan; I didn't know how the Shoanti would react to magical interference. Once they figured it out, they might try to run me down anyway. And even if I got away with my enhanced speed, once the spell was exhausted, I'd still be facing the prospect of crossing the Cinderlands without a horse. That would be a huge risk, but one I figured would be slightly better than being burned alive by Narast's wildfire. Truth be told, the biggest flaw with this plan was that I couldn't share the spell with Tomast. I'd have to leave him to burn. That didn't sit right with me. I wanted him to come through this, to have the place in his Quah that he deserved. I'm tired of leaving people behind.

The fire for the Burn Run was lit with embers from the grand council fire and Tomast and I waited for it to find its legs. Then, at the Burn Riders' signal, we made one last war cry to summon our courage and were off. Let me tell you, there's nothing more motivating than an onrushing wall of heat to give you a lift. We raced hard, eyes always focused on the river in the distance—our salvation. The fire spread fast and wide and soon a number of smaller animals were bolting out of their shallow burrows and fleeing ahead of us.

It was inevitable—there was never really any hope. In the end, the fire overtook me. I could have sworn Tomast slowed down deliberately, trying to encourage me to find another burst of speed, but it didn't matter. The wind provided the fire with a sudden leap, and in another moment the flames were ahead of him too. It was time for my final card, and I needed to concentrate to cast my spell before I burnt in the conflagration.

Suddenly I heard the sound of hoofbeats behind me. I risked a desperate look behind, and found myself staring down a charging aurochs, the panicked creature bursting from the heart of the blaze and making a crazed break for the water. Waves of heat rose off its singed coat.

"Cut it off!" I screamed to Tomast, suddenly hopeful. He understood immediately. "It's a gift from the Sun!" he cried, and then it was upon us. I ran alongside it for two steps and then grabbed two fistfuls of its hair. The beast was furious, but frantic enough to focus on its flight instead of bucking me off. Tomast did the same on the other side.

Every second we were at risk of being trampled, but it was the salvation we needed, for only moments later the aurochs charged into the Yondabakari, its blessed waters closing over our heads. I came up howling with triumph once again, and this time I was joined by Tomast, his expression rapturous.

I clasped arms with my nalharest, and together we screamed in a celebration of survival.

3 Rova, 5707 ar

The Sun Shaman has predicted an emberstorm, and in a few days the clan will migrate. Although I have not yet broken the news, when they go, I go my own way. As a member of the Quah, I am free.

The horses are wrapped in special flame-resistant grasses, but the Burn Riders themselves are not so fortunate.

I've now had more time to reflect on recent events. Tomast has retold the story of the aurochs emerging from the flames many times now, and each time the beast gets larger and more fantastical. He reverently believes the aurochs was sent by the Sun in answer to our prayers at dawn. "How else," he insists, "can you explain the presence of a single aurochs, so far from its herd?" According to the others, solitary aurochs are not unheard of, as they can get sick or lost. But I have another theory. Druids can call upon nature to bring forth all manner of animals as their whims require, and can even become them. I never did see where the aurochs came from, nor where it went to after it deposited us in the river, and though I've gone back to look for tracks, I could find no prints on the far bank. Which makes me wonder: just where was the Sun Shaman this day?

Enough writing for now, there is little enough time to spend with my new brothers. Tomorrow, my journey through these lands must continue. My supplies have been replenished with food and water. Beside me the yurt's walls ripple with a gentle wind from the south, the first I've seen since I arrived. With it, softly, comes the gentle pattering of rain on canvas, and in the air is the sharp smell of moist dust.

Outside, the Cinderlands are breathing as one. And I with them.

Appendix: Black Blizzards

Emberstorms, known also as "black blizzards," are powerful duststorms composed of ash and embers left behind by large brushfires. Raging across the plain, an emberstorm typically takes hours to pass overhead. Shoanti legends tell that the emberstorm is the Cinderland's way of claiming those for whom the gods have called away. These violent duststorms typically occur during summer months, when wildfires are more common. Winter emberstorms are seen as particularly bad omens by the Shoanti, but those that occur during the summer have become little more than an accepted way of life for these hearty people. The natural lay of the land shapes and funnels the path of an emberstorm to a certain extent, and knowledgeable tribes seek out low-lying areas like these out of habit.

The edge of the storm assaults those it envelopes with strong winds of 30 mph. Anyone within the storm's edge suffers a –10 penalty on Spot, Listen and Search checks as well as missile attacks beyond ten feet. In addition, targets in the storm's outer rim benefit from concealment (a 20% miss chance).

The wind deeper in an emberstorm can reach windstorm levels, but is normally severe wind (DMG 95). The scouring ash and grit in the air in an emberstorm functions as a typical duststorm (DMG 94), save that they normally leave behind only 1d4–1 feet of dust and ash in their wake. Additionally, whenever a character takes nonlethal damage from an emberstorm, he also takes 1 point of fire damage from the hot ashes.

Appendix: Burn Riding

Sklar-Quah Burn Riders display both their horsemanship and courage by galloping their steeds through spreading wildfire. Burn riding is frequently used in raids on enemy clans or Varisian settlements, with deliberately set fires blazing suddenly into the opposing camp as a screen to conceal Shoanti cavalry.

New Feat: Burn Rider

Through the ancient tradition of the Sklar-Quah, you can protect both yourself and your mount from flame while traveling at high speeds.

Prerequisite: Mounted Combat, Ride 6 ranks, Handle Animal 6 ranks

Benefit: As long as your mount travels at least 40 feet in a round, you gain fire resistance 3 for that round. You also receive a +4 bonus on all Reflex saves to avoid catching on fire and a +4 bonus on all Fortitude saves against choking on smoke (DMG 303). Each round, as a free action, you may confer the same bonuses to your mount with a successful DC 20 Ride check.

New Trick: Cinderbrave

DC 25 Handle Animal check. The animal will carry or follow its master into an area enshrouded with flames, even if placed at risk. Cinderbrave requires one week to teach, followed by a successful Handle Animal check.

The Bloodworks Incident

By James Jacobs

9 Rova, 4707 ar

Try as I might, I'm afraid I'll never get the knack of rationing water. I'm already halfway through my supply, and unless I find a creek or an oasis tomorrow, it looks like I'll be spending at least the last leg of the trip very thirsty indeed. At least Solitaire's comfortable—I left my trusty mount with the Burn Riders. They've promised to care for her until I return, but I doubt I'll ever see the horse or the Burn Riders again. I miss her, but I sure as hell wasn't going to bring her into Urglin just so some hungry orc could eat her the second I took my eyes off her.

Why would anyone want to visit Urglin if they're not an orc or some hard-case Shoanti outcast? Answer's simple—I need a guide, and I need water. I should have bought a water-creation wand while I was in Kaer Maga, but the thought never occurred to me. As for the guide, it's become more and more clear to me that my treacherous wayfinder wants to send me into the Hold of Belkzen, and despite all evidence to the contrary, I'm not crazy enough to try to navigate the Hold without the advice of an expert. Urglin's primary inhabitants are orc and half-orc outcasts from Belkzen. I suspect that I'll be able to find plenty of knowledgeable guides there, mercenaries who can be bought and who won't balk at the prospect of leading a Pathfinder through the Hold.

So, here I am, camped out in the lee of a hopefully abandoned bulette drift, waiting out the day so I can continue journeying through the night—both tricks I learned from my friend Tomast before I took my leave of the Sklar-Quah. Traveling at night seems so obvious now—it's a wonder I didn't die from heatstroke the moment I left Kaer Maga. Fortunately, the moon is full tonight, and there's plenty of light to see as I walk.

Seeking out bulette drifts, though—I never would have thought of that. The huge predators are well feared by the Shoanti, but they aren't as common here as stories might tell. Anyway, as it works out, pretty much everything else is afraid of the landsharks as well. According to Tomast, the things have enormous hunting grounds, and maintain dozens of drifts as lairs where they sleep out the day. He told me how to identify these crater-like nests, and how to judge how long it's been since the toothy inhabitant has been out by the condition of the droppings in the lowest part of the nest. You find an empty drift with moist droppings, the bulette's still using the area and you want to be out of sight as quickly as you can. You find a drift with droppings that are dry as the ash and sand around them, the bulette's bound to return from his hunting circuit any time. But find one like the one I'm camped in now, with the droppings dry on the outside but still moist in the center, and you can be pretty sure that the nest's owner is near the opposite side of his hunting circuit, at least two days away. Since other predators avoid bulette drifts at all times, you can apparently sleep in one without worry that something's going to grab you.

So, yeah. I'm horseless, hunkered down in a bulette's toilet, parched and hungry, planning my first visit to a city filled with orcs where I'm planning on flashing around some money to hire a mercenary to guide me into the Hold of Belkzen.

There better be something really, really incredible at the end of this journey.

11 Rova, 4704 ar

What is there to say of Urglin, aside from the obvious? The place is a cesspool, a breeding ground for vice and hatred, and a constant annoyance and threat to the Shoanti. Pound for pound, there are more orcs to be found squatting in these ancient ruins than anywhere else on the Storval Plateau. Ironically, that makes the place one of the safest locations to interact with the ferocious savages, since their excessive numbers here give them a sense of safety—they so obviously outnumber other races, their natural instinct to defend their territory seems to be completely absent.

Unfortunately, my first impression of Urglin (Orc, I believe, for "Second Home"—no one seems to know what the city's original name might have been) was disappointing. Not for its size or scope, but simply because the rumors of it being a Thassilonian ruin are just that—rumors. The underlying architectural style of the ruins is distinctly more recent. Yet as I explored the city and did my best to avoid attracting the attention of the Bonecarvers (more on them later), my initial disappointment gave way to curiosity, for in several places, ruined walls bear marks and carvings that have a distinctly Shoanti feel. Was the city on which Urglin was built originally of Shoanti construction? Were the nomadic tribes of the Storval Plateau not always so nomadic? And if they were the original builders of this city, why did they abandon it?

Unfortunately, I don't have much time to spend investigating these curious mysteries—I need to find myself a guide and a wand as quickly as possible so I can be on my way before sunrise. I want to put as much distance as possible between me and here before I sleep. There's not much in the way of safe places for a lone wanderer to sleep in Urglin. There are plenty of taverns and flophouses, but most cater almost exclusively to orcs and half-orcs—humans are welcome only if their reputation precedes them. As I have no intention of staying in town long enough to garner one, for now I'm holed up beneath a partially collapsed pillar, out of sight of foot traffic after having spent the better part of the early evening exploring the city.

The city itself covers more than three hundred acres of barren land, ruined even further by decades of misuse. Not a large city at all, by Korvosa's standards, but large enough that even after several hours of exploring, I feel I've only scratched the surface of what's going on here. As noted above, the orcs didn't build Urglin. At least, not most of it. They've shored up buildings here and there with bone and leather tents, crude stone walls, and in some places even lumber—so much lumber, in fact, that this more than anything else is proof that I'm on the northernmost edge of the Cinderlands. The city is split into five neighborhoods—Warmouth, Bonerattle, Oozefront, Scabtown, and Pinkskin. I'm in Pinkskin right now—easily the smallest neighborhood, and by far the friendliest to humans. The majority of the folk living in the tents and yurts that make up Pinkskin are humans, in fact—outcast Shoanti, traveling mercenaries, and other doubtful folk who've thrown in their lot with the orcs. After spending several hours in the other neighborhoods, it's actually a relief to see so many grizzled and unfriendly, but unmistakably human, faces.

Warmouth's the largest neighborhood, and it's the first one a visitor to Urglin encounters. Comprising the southern third of the city, this is where the city's "nobility" hold court, and where you see the most of what pass for public buildings. Largest of them all is the Gray Donjon, Urglin's jail and the heart of its military. Other buildings include the seven Warlord Keeps, the War Tower, and the Rally Fields—all places I avoided.

After passing north through Warmouth, you come to a long, narrow neighborhood called Oozefront, Urglin's primary marketplace. The district stretches the entire length of Urglin, running east-west and split down the middle by a rancid river bearing a charming moniker: Ooze. Urglin doesn't have an actual sewage system, but it does have this convenient river, and the Ooze didn't get its name accidentally. The orcs get the majority of their drinking water from where the Ooze flows into town along the western wall, and it's a wonder to me that disease isn't more rampant among them. They likely have resistances built up. In any case, I couldn't stand to remain within fifty feet of the riverbanks for the stench. Whatever the orcs don't want goes in the river, which grows more and more sluggish as it flows east, eventually miring in the stagnant reaches of Pusbubble Lake just outside the city walls. Two bridges cross the Ooze, one at the east end and one at the west. Since the eastern one goes right up over the nearest shores of Pussbubble, I chose the western one and entered Bonerattle. That turned out to be a mistake.

Bonerattle's the religious core of Urglin. And since these orcs, like most orcs, worship the Rough Beast, Rovagug, Bonerattle's not a nice place to be. The buildings here are built entirely from bones, mostly from aurochs and other large animals, but certainly decorated with human remains. Walls consist of thick sheets of leather stretched over frames, with the notable exception of the Beast's House, the central cathedral of Rovagug. The church looks like a small hill carved to resemble an immense spider made of bones—the mouth of which, of course, serves as the building's entrance. Curious as I was, I knew better than to go inside. Yet even my brief observation attracted the attention of one of Bonerattle's guardians, a hulking orc priest of Rovagug bearing an immense axe and spiky metal armor. I found out later that these "Bonecarvers" are what passes for a city guard in Urglin. From what I've seen, though, they're really just bruisers and extortion artists dangerous enough to demand official recognition. The Bonecarver that accosted me asked my business in Bonerattle, and, thinking quickly, I responded in Orc: "I'm looking for my partner—he robbed me, left me for dead, and headed back here to sell what he stole. I'm hoping to catch him drunk so I can haul him back here for you to offer up to the Beast." (To be honest, my speech wasn't quite so eloquent, as the Bonecarver insisted on taking playful swings at me with his axe while I explained myself.) Once the message made it through, though, he seemed to like the concept of me offering up another "pinkskin" to the Beast, and said he'd accompany me into Pinkskin to collect my friend. I didn't really have a choice but to agree.

The smallest of the five neighborhoods, Pinkskin is wedged between Bonerattle and Scabtown along the northern central side of the city. Walking through its crowded lanes, I began to sweat as it became increasingly obvious to my Bonecarver escort that I didn't really know where I was going. Fortunately, my random wanderings took me by a small, rickety stall owned by a beardless dwarf. (Ever see a beardless dwarf? It's bizarre.) The dwarf panicked when he saw the Bonecarver approaching his stall, and he ran up to the orc priest babbling, "Sir! You didn't need to come down here! I'll be done by tomorrow at sunrise, I promise! Elves are delicate things—they don't take to taxidermy well, and I had to secure some special salts to preserve the color of her skin. She'll be done by dawn, I promise!" The poor idiot didn't get much more out, for whatever he was talking about enraged the Bonecarver. I was instantly forgotten, and the spectacle of the berserk orc priest hacking the unfortunate dwarf into pieces made for a convenient opportunity to slip away into the crowd.

The Bonecarver spent a few minutes looting the dwarf's stall and then headed back to Bonerattle, apparently having forgotten me altogether. Honestly, I'm not sure what was more unnerving—the speed with which he took that dwarf apart, or the speed in which things returned to normal after he was done.

In any case, breaktime is over. I'm going to finish off this entry and head into Scabtown. I've been hearing a lot of talk about the "games" starting in an hour at some place called "Ploog's Bloodworks"—might have to check that out first. Who could resist finding out what passes for a "game" in an orc city?

12 Rova, 4704 ar

In most cities, the marketplace is the loudest district, residential sections tend to be relatively quiet. Not so with Scabtown—the first thing I noticed about the place was the noise, a constant cacophony of crashes and screams as orcs worked, played, and, presumably, loved (though how to tell which activity a given scream represented was beyond me). It didn't take long for me to determine that this wasn't a safe place for a human to linger, and I made up my mind to seek out my guide back in Pinktown.

The faithful of Rovagug have little patience for pinkskins.

But not before a visit to the Bloodworks.

The place was on everyone's lips, and the way Scabtown's set up, you can't miss it. It's easily the largest building in the district, old ruin or new orc shelter alike. It's an open-air arena, built from a combination of immense bones, logs, and hundreds of sheets of leather stretched over the ovoid outer walls. The thing looks like an enormous, bony leather egg half-buried in the stone, laying on its side and with a circular opening at the top to expose the fighting floor to the open sky. The entire structure's about two hundred feet wide and three hundred feet long, rising to a height of just over sixty feet. The circular opening in the roof is about eighty feet in diameter, surrounded by dozens of long thin banners marked with too many orc symbols to remember, although the symbol of Rovagug certainly is a common theme.

By the time I reached the Bloodworks, it was obvious that much of the district's noise was coming from within—a mix of cheers and the sound of combat. I'd been a little worried that, as a human, I wouldn't be let into the arena, but it was only a matter of a few coins paid to one of the bulky orc guards to get inside. The way he chortled at me as I entered was a little unsettling—I wasn't sure if he thought I was here to watch a match or to be the match.

Inside, the combined stink of sweat, blood, alcohol, and worse hit me like a hammer. A thin miasma of smoke and dirt hung in the air, but the place remained well lit by the profusion of torches burning on poles surrounding the central fighting pit. This pit was an earthen floor featuring a few odd rocky protrusions here and there. The place was a mess—it appeared I had arrived just as a previous gladiatorial match between two groups of warriors came to its gruesome, bloody end. The victors, a band of lumbering ogerkin clad in leather armor emblazoned with Rovagug's symbol, were busy pumping bloodstained weapons in the air or kicking around the remnants of their victims—a dozen freshly slain dwarves. The cheers in the place were nearly deafening—surrounding three-quarters of the fighting pit was a tiered set of scaffolding, to which hundreds of orcs clung wherever they could find space. The opposite side of the arena was more enclosed—a wooden fortress, almost. Two sweeping staircases spiraled down from the structure's roof, itself seeming to function as additional seating for important guests. Those stairs led right down to the arena floor, framing an enormous pair of doors. Orc guards dressed in spiky hide armor stood at attention on those stairs.

To my immediate left, I noticed a section of the surrounding scaffolding that seemed to be mostly taken by half-orcs, rough-looking humans (mostly Shoanti), and a few grizzled dwarves. Assuming this must be the "Pinkskin" section of seating, I clambered up onto the lowest tier overlooking the fighting floor—no one seemed to take offense at my arrival, which I took as a good sign.

By this point, the ogrekin had quit the field, and an incredibly fat orc dressed in crimson and silver robes had finished descending the stairs and taken a position on a flat rock at the far end of the field. A three-foot-long spiny green lizard perched on his ample shoulders, and as the corpulent orc held up his bejeweled hands, the place fell silent. This, I had to assume, was none other than Ploog himself.

"And now," the orc began, his voice filling the interior of the Bloodworks with ease, "The Main Event. What you've all gathered here for! Thanks again to the Sons of Rovagug for the opening show, and proof that being a dwarf isn't all it's cut out to be!" To this, there was a short round of laughter and applause (except from the few dwarves to my left) before Ploog continued.

"My brothers, tonight I have a rare treat for you. As you're all aware, Old Vestatch woke from sleep on the point of a knife. Kurg Gutscar's got his fortress in Warmouth now, and along with Vestatch's body, he threw out quite a few slaves and servants. I had my boys gather up those who survived, and bring them before you today to die for your entertainment! BRING OUT THE MEAT, BOYS!"

Ploog spun on his heel to face his wooden castle, and a small door to the left of the larger gates opened. Out came eight men, mostly humans but two half-orcs as well. All were dressed in ratty-looking leather armor and had looks of desperation on their sooty faces. Three orc guards led them into the center of the fighting pit and lined them up on display, at which point I noticed that the half-orc closest to me, alone among his brethren, managed to look amused by the situation.

"There they are, my brothers. The last ragged remnants of House Vestatch. How are they to die?"

A ripple of murmurs and whispers shot through the crowd. A few moments later, an orc across the way cried out, "Make them spin!" Another shrieked out, "Let's have a duel!" followed by a cry of, "Let's see some pain!" The Bloodworks erupted into a cacaphony of shouting then, with various members of the audience crying out for Duels, Spins, and Pain. Ploog basked in the uproar for a few minutes until it became obvious that the crowd had settled on a choice.

"So they are to spin. Well and good," said Ploog as he turned to the guards. "Arm them and have one of them spin!" The crowd erupted into cheers again as one orc handed out rusty short swords, small hatchets, and battered wooden bucklers to the eight men. The other two orcs returned to the keep for a moment, then wheeled a large metal device out onto the floor. It was a four-foot-diameter disk balanced upon a wooden beam—a wheel-shaped spinner with names carved into the pie-shaped wedges on its surface. As one orc led a nervous-looking slave up to the spinner, I could only make out a few of the names carved on its face: "Face-Gasher," "Bonethunder," "The Grinder," and "Old Razorbite" among them. As the slave spun the wheel, the crowd fell silent. For half a minute, the only sound was the slowly decreasing "tick-tick-tick" of the spinner's pointer glancing off the ridges that separated the various choices. When the spinner finally came to rest on a wedge, Ploog threw his hands into the air.

"Razorbite it is!" This brought a new cry of excitement up from the crowd, and I noticed how the expressions on most of the doomed slaves grew even more desperate. The slave who'd spun the wheel started pawing at his orc keeper, begging and pleading, and received a mailed fist to the jaw, knocking him out cold. One of the other slaves in the lineup, a sobbing human at the end closest to me, sank his rusty knife deep into his own neck. He was still tugging the wound open as he crumbled to his knees. The two sudden events brought an uproar of laughter from the crowd, and a smile to Ploog's spit-flecked lips.

"Looks like it's just going to be six against Razorbite after all. Very well! On with the game!" Moving nimbly for his size, Ploog clambered back up the stairs to take his seat of honor overlooking the battlefield below while his orcs followed. A few minutes passed, giving the audience time to jeer at the slaves on the field below. Five of them huddled together, but the sixth, that same half-orc I'd noticed earlier with the smirk, cast aside his Ploog-issued buckler, walked over to the suicide, and took up the dead man's sword in his off-hand to compliment the hatchet he wielded in his other. Sounds of something big roaring and thrashing around inside the wooden castle became apparent, and then Ploog's bodyguards began turning a pair of winches to either side of the fat orc's throne. Below, the massive doors began to open.

The land sharks are as vicious as they are stupid.

With a crash, the immense, battle-scarred monstrosity within threw the doors wide as it thundered onto the battleground, much to the delight of the crowd. The bulette was immense, thirty feet long if it was an inch, and combining the worst features of a shark and some horrific armored reptile.

The nature of what was to come became quickly apparent as the bulette leapt the twenty feet between the doors and the unconscious slave. It tore into him with a ravenous wrath—although it could have easily swallowed him whole, the monster seemed to take a particular delight in tearing him apart first. Its dorsal plate was standing at full height, indicating its excitement.

To their credit, the slaves held out a lot longer against the monster than I thought they would. Of course, they spent most of the battle running away from the bulette, who in turned seemed to be enjoying the chase. Now and then, its leaps would carry it close enough for its claws to lash out and maul a slave, giving the dwindling number of survivors a few moments to put some distance between themselves and the terror. Only the grinning half-orc seemed interested in fighting—his skill at dodging aside to take swipes at the monster's flanks as it raced past him even started to garner some cheers from the audience, although they still seemed to be more interested in watching the bulette tear things up.

It didn't take the bulette long to tire of the half-orc's tactics. The third time it happened, the beast stopped short and spun to face him, swiping at him with a forelimb capable of cutting a horse in half. The lucky half-orc dodged aside from the claws, but was still struck by the backswing of the creature's paw. Sent hurtling through the air, the half-orc landed with a grunt against the support pole on which I leaned, his head lolling back so that, for a moment, our eyes met.

It's impossible to say what I saw in those pain-clouded eyes—a ferocious need to survive, yes, but tempered with a calculated acceptance of the situation. Then his gaze shifted to my left. I turned to follow it and saw what he had seen: the support pillar just to my left had split at some time in the past, likely from a different titanic clash here in the Bloodworks. Ploog had apparently never bothered to have it fixed. Now it leaned outward at an angle, and its splintered tip protruded into the ring like a lance set to receive a charge.

I glanced back at the half-orc and was astonished to see him smiling through the pain. He mouthed two words to me—"Watch this!"—then sprang back to his feet to return to the fray. The bulette had pinned the last two slaves to the ground and was tearing them to ribbons, but its back was to us. The half-orc took aim, and with a single powerful throw, hurled his hatchet at the tender flesh that had been exposed by the bulette's extended dorsal plate. His aim was true; the hatchet buried itself in the monster's back, causing it to roar in pain and spin again to face him. The creature charged, a stampede of razor teeth and talons. The half-orc turned and ran directly at the leaning pole—at me—and I realized that I was sitting in the most dangerous seat in the house. So, apparently, did the other men seated in my area—with an eruption of profanity, they scrambled to the left and right, looking for cover. Not me. Maybe the half-orc and I had shared something in that brief moment, recognition of another born survivor, or maybe I'd just seen enough men torn limb from limb that day. I stood my ground and reached quickly into one of my pouches, drawing forth a handful of ground mica. Bringing it close to my mouth with both hands, I whispered an incantation, then blew.

An eruption of glittering dust exploded from my cupped hands, engulfing the charging bulette. The golden powder coated its body, causing it to glow brightly, and gathered thick in its tiny eyes, blinding the beast. Yet its momentum remained. I dove aside, down and into the pit, just as the creature made an ill-advised leap that I'm sure it thought would bring its four taloned legs down square on the fleeing half-orc. Instead, it brought its throat down on the jagged tip of the leaning scaffolding support.

What happened next is a blur. That the bulette hadn't been killed by its self-impalement—only angered—was a shock. Apparently those things are too stupid to even know when they're dead. The ensuing carnage undoubtedly saved my life, however—even though the entire audience, Ploog included, had doubtless seen me casting the spell, there wasn't time to do anything about it with a bleeding, enraged, and blinded set of teeth attached to several tons of monster tearing its way through the audience. The bulette's talons allow it to burrow through the earth with shocking speed. Through crowds of orcs and wooden scaffolding, it goes even faster.

The half-orc is nobody's slave.

I felt a hand grab mine and tug me aside. It was the half-orc.

"Thanks for that," he said in a low, guttural voice. "But I'm afraid you just signed up for a whole lot of pain. We need to get out of the city. Come with me. I know a place we can hide in the hills east of town."

Our flight out of Scabtown and from there out of Urglin was swift, made easier by the fact that the news of the commotion at the Bloodworks was spreading fast and citizens were eager to get a free look at the carnage. By the time we made it to the gladiator's promised cave, a tiny but well-hidden nook at the edge of wide field of briars, the sun was rising, and we both collapsed into dreamless sleep. I woke often, starting at the slightest sound, but he seemed completely at peace, unconcerned with whatever dangers might threaten us. And why shouldn't he be? After last night, it seems clear to me that he might just be the most dangerous thing in this valley.

I wonder if he wants a job?

Thin Air

By Amber Scott

26 Rova, 4707 ar

There's a comfort to the wilderness I don't find in cities. Everywhere I travel I see life of all different types, each creature thriving in its own particular environment. From bogs to forests, mountain slopes to grassy plains, every living thing in Golarion has a place to call home.

Except, perhaps, in the mountains of Belkzen. Never have I seen such an inhospitable place. Peaks seem to spring fully formed from the rocky plains. Sheer cliffs drop so suddenly that I keep an incantation to slow my fall always at the forefront of my mind. The lower mountains slope sharply into points as menacing as a row of spearheads. Not a shrub or bush grows in this rocky soil, and crags of razored stone jut from the rock walls, sharp enough to tear a hole right through my cloak and shirt and into my skin. I think the only way this place could be less hospitable is if it were actually on fire.

My mood darkened steadily this morning as Joskan and I climbed further into the hills. The sun beat down in the empty sky, and I saw no birds, no snakes—not even any insects. I almost would have welcomed a dragonwasp. The lack of any activity made me anxious, and the vastness of the empty sky made it seem as if the sun weren't moving at all.

By the time dusk finally settled we had covered a good deal of ground. I took out my wayfinder, and though we'd had to wind and double back a bit due to the restrictive mountain trails, I guessed we had made progress.

There was no wood with which to build a fire, but the night air wasn't too cold. Joskan volunteered the first watch and I found the least rocky patch of ground on which to sleep. As I drifted off, a crag of rock digging into one shoulder and gritty mountain-dust clinging to my face, I thought a person would have to be utterly, raving insane to try and make a home in this wasteland.

I woke in darkness with terror gripping my heart. I scrabbled for a weapon without knowing what was going on. I knew only that I couldn't see, that I was cold and my shoulder ached, and that I was as frightened as I'd ever been.

"Shh!" Joskan's voice brought me back to reality. I crouched beside my guide, shivering and stiff, holding my blade in numb fingers. I scanned one direction, then another, but saw nothing but vague shapes in the blackness.

"What is—" I began.

Then a howling erupted that chilled the marrow in my bones. Not a scream, not a wail, but a vicious, wordless howl that rose from a chorus of throats to rattle over the slopes and peaks. The cacophony carried with it promises of death—and not a quick and heroic one, either. I crouched motionless, paralyzed with fear, until the howl died away. More mundane shrieks and the bangs of fists on drums followed, but the sounds did not seem to be drawing closer.

"Joskan!" My voice shook, and I wondered if I could blame it on the cold. "What in this blasted land was that?"

I could barely make out Joskan's features in the dark, but I thought I saw a look of revulsion and fear cross his face. "Mountain orcs," he spat.

A high-pitched screaming overlaid the savage roars. A mountain cat, perhaps, or an unfortunate traveler. I started to rise to my feet, but Joskan put a hand on my shoulder and shook his head.

"They travel in packs," he said, "and rip apart anything they find. When they can't find anything else, they rip apart each other. We wouldn't last a minute against a pack of mountain-dwellers. We'll circle around them after dawn. Can't risk moving in the dark."

"That's interesting," I managed to whisper.

"What?"

"Apparently, you do have to be totally insane to live here."

27 Rova, 4707 ar

Joskan told me more about the highland orcs the next day, as we ventured further into the mountains rather than risk exposure in the orc-infested foothills around the pass between Varisia and Belkzen. "Raving," "bloodthirsty," and "savage" were his favorite adjectives.

As always, Joskan was reluctant to provide details when asked direct questions. I inferred from his stories, though, that Joskan's people were lowlanders and somewhat more civilized—or at least organized—than their bestial cousins. "Some of them don't even enslave their prisoners before they eat them," he noted with a sniff. "Some say they made their homes so high on the slopes that they went mad from the thin air and from staring too long at the empty sky." I had noticed that the higher up we climbed, the harder I had to work to keep up with Joskan. I couldn't seem to get enough air, thin and lifeless as it was this high in the tors.

Joskan also pointed out the stirrings of life in this seemingly unlivable wasteland. What I had taken for barren earth contained burrows for the small mammals that lived in the area. Scrubby brush the color of slate clung to the ground, and once I spotted mangy mountain goats leaping from rock to rock.

I watched for the highland orcs from the night before, but saw no signs of pursuit. When I said as much to Joskan, he grunted in his particular way that I've yet to interpret. "What do we seek up here?" he asked. "I've no wish to stay any longer than we must."

The hard weight of the wayfinder swung inside my pocket. "Good question. I have a feeling I'll know it when I see it." I squinted up at the horizon, passed a hand in front of my eyes, and stopped. "Maybe that's it there."

Joskan looked up and also stopped.

Wrapped around the mountain peak ahead of us was
a dragon.

It was so large that, had it hunched up between peaks, I might have mistaken it for another mountain. Its immense size allowed me to see the beast in exquisite detail, even at this distance. Scales as large as a man covered its sinuous body. Claws as long and thick as trees dug into solid rock, shearing aside the ancient stone as if it were flesh. Its mouth, large enough to fit a house in, was open, and its tongue unfurled as if tasting prey on the wind. White smoke drifted from its mouth as the monster breathed.

Its hide was stone-colored as if in a pitiful mockery of camouflage. Nothing could disguise this beast. Beside me, Joskan clutched fruitlessly at the haft of his axe.

We stood there for several breaths. Finally I relaxed, realizing that the great beast couldn't possibly care about prey as small as we, and had not seemed to notice us. In fact, it didn't seem to notice anything, not even the lone bird that circled near its head. Its gaze remained fixed and unblinking, its tongue still unfurled, and although the white smoke issued from its mouth, its sides did not move with each breath.

"It's a statue," I murmured.

Joskan grunted again, but it lacked the usual implied disdain. He pointedly released his axe and folded his arms, as if feeling more confident against a few thousand tons of rock.

I shook loose of my awe and took a few steps forward. "Come on!" I shouted as I resumed the climb. "I want to get a better view."

With a final grunt and a shake of his head, Joskan stalked after me.

"That's the spirit," I said. "Just keep your eyes out for trouble and try not to think about golems."

"I'm not thinking about golems," Joskan said. He spat into a pile of scrub and joined me in the climb. "I'm thinking about what could have built something like that, and if the sculptor's still here."

He does have a knack for snuffing my enthusiasm.

28 Rova, 4707 ar

We spent most of the day climbing and camped another night without incident. Joskan found trails I admit I would have missed—steep, narrow, and rock-strewn, to be sure, but they eased our passage nonetheless.

I focused on the scenery as we passed, and the more I looked, the more I discovered. Belkzen came to life around me. Rust-red lichen blended into the rock face so perfectly, I only discovered it when I put my hand out to steady myself and felt its stiff-soft bristles. Dun-colored shrews huddled among the rocks and scurried off once we'd passed. My cloak caught on a thorny, dead bramble, and when I paused to untangle myself I saw the black wood oozing oily sap; what I'd taken for thorns were seed-pods, tightly screwed to pointy tips.

Every now and then I looked up and caught sight of the massive, fantastic dragon coiled on his mountainous throne. Each time, the sight sent a shiver running through me and refreshed my awe.

"I take back what I said before," I commented. We halted for a moment so I could catch my breath, and to allow a mountain cat the size of a sheep to prowl by. She snarled at us but had no desire to tangle with such large prey. "This place is beautiful, once you get used to it."

By this time, we had left the narrow, treacherous trail for the broader and more comfortable mountain slope. I felt nervous with no stone walls on either side. Although the slope was gradual and a fall would bring nothing worse than a skinned knee, I couldn't shake the sensation that I was extraordinarily, dangerously high up. I looked up at the dragon again, at the stretch of sky above and around. No clouds marred the azure expanse, nor birds—only miles of blue nothing. For a moment I felt dizzy, and I could well imagine a man going mad with too much time staring up.

Then movement caught my eye. Another bird circled by the dragon. Even though I knew the monster to be a statue, I half expected it to come to life and snap up the intruder in its jaws.

I frowned. The bird was far away and indistinct, but it seemed to be the same type as the one I'd seen before. The enormity of the dragon skewed all proportions, but it seemed the bird was too large. It struck me, too, that I'd seen no other birds of any type, and now that I knew life indeed thrived in this barren place, their omission seemed odd.

I turned to Joskan to comment about the birds. He was stopped, body rigid, and looking over his shoulder with a face as gray as campfire ashes.

"Joskan?"

"We're being followed."

Joskan and I raced up the mountain slope with as much speed as we could muster. Unfortunately for us, our mustering was embarrassing.

"It's hard... to hurry... this high up," I panted. I leaned forward as I climbed, grabbing rocks and shrubs to pull myself higher and ease some of the burden on my legs and lungs.

"I've been away... too long." Joskan huffed. "Takes time to... get used to moving like this again."

Retreat was impossible. The five orcs had waited until we were midway up the slope, exposed and trapped, before they ventured out from the rocks below. I glanced back only once, but that was enough.

Crude tattoos, brands, and scars covered their bodies in chaotic patterns. They wore tattered outfits that they must have assembled from mismatched bits and pieces of their victims' armor. Each bristled with as many weapons as he could carry. Bone and metal needles pierced their ears, nostrils, and cheeks. Now that they were in the open, they screamed and caterwauled with the same terrifying yells that woke me my first night here.

"Bad luck... we only notice them now," I gasped as we struggled onward. "Earlier we might have... doubled back... lost them..."

"No chance," Joskan said. "They chose now... to be seen. To trap us."

"There has to be a way forward." I breathed rapidly, panting, trying to draw enough of the thin air into my lungs to continue. "Maybe on the other side... of the dragon."

With any luck, the highland orcs will kill you before they begin eating you.

Above us, the massive figure of the stone dragon cast its shadow over the mountain slope. We climbed past one of its forelimbs. Its stone claws sank three or four feet down into the solid rock. Ahead, the stone ribbon of its tongue touched down on the rocky slope. A haze of white mist spurted from the dragon's mouth, but when the haze cleared, I noticed something.

"Joskan! Look at the dragon's mouth. It's not solid, it's hollow. I think we can get inside."

Joskan grunted as he heaved himself up. The angle of the slope grew steeper. "So?"

"Maybe we can hide there, lose the orcs in the fog and then double back."

Even as I spoke, though, I realized the flimsiness of the plan. I scanned the dragon and saw patches of stone scales ripped away in spots, and the blackness beyond suggested these holes were windows into some structure within the statue. But what laired there or how large (or safe) it was, there was no way to tell. Better to continue down the slope on the other side and lose ourselves in the twisting mountain trails.

I opened my mouth to say so, when Joskan halted near the stone tip of the dragon's tongue. I scrambled up next to him and stared down in dismay.

The opposite slope of the mountain was nothing but narrow, broken ledges punctuating a series of sheer drops. Far below, a rare patch of scrawny evergreen trees provided a welcome splotch of green. Some of the hardy mountain scrub grew from cracks in the wall, and narrow crevices offered hand- and foot-holds, but it was clear our progress would be painstaking at best. I risked another look over my shoulder.

The orcs were closing the gap between us as if they were part mountain goat. One had drawn a bow, and fixed me with an ugly grin.

My gaze met Joskan's. He shrugged.

"In we go," I said.

Joskan and I scrambled up the dragon's tongue with all haste. The pursuing orcs broke into a trot and drew their weapons, shouting. I took heart—anything that angered the orcs was fine by me. I hoped it meant they didn't know what the dragon's innards held, either.

Its mouth was dark, cool, and misty. The source of the fog was a stone block the size of an altar, covered with strange, symmetrical runes. White smoke periodically issued from a concave opening in its front. With neither the time nor experience to deciper the mysterious contraption's purpose, I left well enough alone.

Joskan and I paused but a moment in the dragon's mouth to catch our breath. I was prepared to make a light, but the occasional missing scale let in dusty yellow daylight, just enough to see by.

Rows of benches lined the walls of the cavernous mouth, and the dragon's teeth, which curved up and down like scimitars, formed a prickly barricade for any who might try to enter. "I think this used to be a guard post," I whispered.

Joskan nodded and ran a hand over one of the benches. Although wooden, it seemed as solid as if it were fashioned yesterday. Dust puffed in a cloud when he lifted his hand. "We can move these to form a barricade. Make a stand here?"

My fluttering heartbeat steadied, finally, and I felt as if my lungs were working properly again. I peered into the back of the cavern. A tunnel stretched on. "Let's go deeper. I'd rather not fight if we don't have to. Five raving orcs against two ordinary—albeit exceptionally brave and handsome—travelers sounds like poor odds."

We hurried through the mouth, and I longed to be able to stop and investigate the carvings on the wall—scenes of battles, mostly, in which I recognized the dragon statue in several backgrounds—and a strange circular motif in the architecture that kept repeating. It might have been a calendar or record of events. With the orcs coming up fast behind us, though, I had only time for a longing look as we raced past.

From the mouth, a tunnel threaded through the dragon's curving neck. The floor was solid, but I noticed patches of scales chipped away above and thin cracks in the walls. How old this statue was I couldn't guess, but whatever enchantment held it together seemed to now be weakening.

A two-foot-tall opening ran the entire length of the tunnel. I had a breathtaking, panoramic view of the surrounding area as we raced past, and again I noticed elaborate carvings above and below it. These ones made me stop and risk a few precious seconds to look closer.

What possible function could these strange eggs fulfill?

"Joskan, look at this!" I whispered. "The carvings—they match the scenery outside. See? This slope continues here," I traced where the landscape became the drawing. "And look, this waterfall must flow into a lake, you can see it on this—this map, I guess. Wait, the drawing shows a mountain here, but there's none outside. How old do you think this place is?"

"How old do you think we'll get to be if those orcs catch us?" Joskan snarled.

I tore myself away from the bizarre and beautiful panorama and followed Joskan, but couldn't resist sticking my hand through the window.

I heard the rustle of armor, the growls of the orcs, and the clash of their weapons beating together, distant but fast approaching, as we neared the end of the tunnel. A larger room opened up before us, probably the first of many chambers hidden in the dragon's abdomen. Years of experience led me to slow down and tug on Joskan's sleeve.

"Easy, now. No sense jumping out of the kettle and into the fire."

Joskan grunted but stopped. I stepped ahead of him and moved quickly and quietly to the next room.

The sight overwhelmed me. The large chamber held eggs—eggs of all shapes and sizes, from robin to roc, but each one fashioned from some precious material. Gold glittered in the dim sun. Sapphire flashed as deeply blue as the sky outside. Marble gleamed white as bone, and obsidian glistened like the oily sap of the Belkzen brambles. For a moment, I forgot about the orcs chasing after us and stared in wonder at the collection.

Some eggs stood on pedestals, others in niches in the walls. Light that came from nowhere illuminated each, and I caught a glimpse of etchings on several of the larger ones. I couldn't look too closely, though, because something stirred deeper in the room.

Along one wall, a large patch of stone scales had broken away and left a jagged hole like a giant picture-window. On the floor next to the hole, two bizarre creatures slept.

I saw the nearest one most clearly. Its hind legs, those of an oversized mountain goat, kicked restlessly as it slept. Long, golden hair covered its hindquarters but gave way to sandy scales and a ridged spine further up its back. Its front legs ended in huge paws, from which I saw the tips of retracted black claws, each one probably as long as my dagger.

Two leathery wings wrapped around the creature's midsection, and I realized with a sinking feeling why there were no birds in this area. It would take a lot to feed a creature with three heads, I'd imagine.

The head nearest to me was that of a mountain goat, one with spear-like horns and unnaturally sharp teeth.
The middle head was a mountain cat like the one Joskan and I had passed earlier, but three times as large.
The last head looked like a miniature replica of the dragon's head through which we'd entered this strange place. Chimeras. I'd read of such creatures before,
and from what I knew, they were as ill-tempered as they were ugly.

I backed up as quietly as I could and found Joskan waiting, muscles tense and axe in hand. The clatter of our pursuers grew louder, and I wasn't sure if the orcs would catch us before the chimeras awoke and devoured us.

"Well?" Joskan asked.

"Definitely the fire," I replied. "Don't worry. I've got a plan."

The hardest part was waiting until the orcs caught up to us. It took only a minute for the orcs to come around the curve, spot us, and charge, but it seemed much longer. Even though I expected it—anticipated it—the sight of the five orcs in their makeshift armor, spittle flying from their mouths as they gnashed their teeth, cast serious doubts on my scheme.

With three heads, you'd think at least one would be friendly.

I had no time for insecurities, though; the chimeras were waking up. I grabbed Joskan's arm and we bolted into the egg chamber.

My heart sank at the sight of the lovely sculptures as we dashed through the room; how I wished I had time to come back and study them all! The chimeras pulled themselves out of sleep, and the one nearest to me lifted its goat head and blinked while its cat head yawned hugely. Heart in my throat, I leaped over the dragon head and pulled Joskan between the two sleeping beasts. My foot caught on the chimera's horn and I almost fell, turning my stumble into a sharp kick in the monster's flank. The beasts came fully awake and sprang up with roars and bleats.

The growls of the pursuing orcs turned to screams of rage as they realized the trap. Without pausing, Joskan and I pushed past the chimeras and flung ourselves out the jagged hole.

A sheer cliff dropped hundreds of feet. Joskan and I fell through the air; vertigo assaulted me as I struggled to complete the phrase on my lips. Joskan shrieked something, but the wind caught his words and tore them away. I reached out, my hand scraping the cliff face as we fell, and gasped the last syllable.

Instantly our fall was arrested. Instead of plummeting to our deaths, Joskan and I floated down at a steady, peaceful rate, light as feathers.

"How's that for a plan?" I grinned at Joskan, and he grunted back. From above us, the sounds of orcs howling and chimeras roaring drifted down the cliff.

"That should keep them busy for a while." I let us sink magically as long as I dared, then reached out and grabbed at the cliff until I found solid hand and footholds. Joskan stretched out a hand and grasped the edge of my cloak, and I reeled him in like a fish on a line. Together we inched our way down and west until we reached a ledge capable of taking the two of us abreast. In that one leap, we'd circumvented at least a solid day's worth of hard climbing.

I checked the wayfinder—still pointing due east, as always.

"Joskan," I said with a sigh as we picked our way down the slope, "we make a pretty good team."

He gave a brusque nod, which I interpreted as his version of a smile. "Dangerous. And foolish. We should be more careful from now on."

"If there's one thing I've learned," I said, "it's that trouble finds the prepared and unprepared alike. No matter how careful you are, something new is always coming." I inhaled as deeply as I could in the thin mountain air. "You can smell it on the wind." Joskan only grunted.

Side by side, we continued down into the darkening forest.

Appendix: Flora and Fauna of Belkzen

Numerous plants and animals thrive in Belkzen. Although not unique to the area, they are indigenous.

Aurochs: The primary source of meat, wool, and leather in Belkzen, the great herds of Belkzen aurochs are of a breed distinct from their counterparts on the Storval Plateau, having thick, yak-like fur designed to keep them warm as they migrate back and forth from the Realm of the Mammoth Lords to Belkzen's southern tip, often following the Flood Road.

Belkzen Brambles: These twisted, thorny branches appear dead at first glance, but a closer inspection (DC 10 Spot or Search check) or prior knowledge (DC 12 Knowledge [nature] check) reveals supple wood and living sap. The sharp, tricorn thorns can be used as caltrops if harvested carefully (DC 15 Survival check), although the thorns are destroyed after use.

Belkzen Puma: These tawny mountain lions move with exceptional stealth and hunt the other native creatures of Belkzen. Smaller than regular mountain lions (use leopard statistics), Belkzen pumas rarely attack adventurers unless a pack comes upon a lone traveler.

Firemoss: This rust-red moss catches fire slowly and burns steadily. A fist-sized clump of firemoss burns for an hour, making it a favored substance for crafting torches.

Mountain Goat: The brown mountain goats of Belkzen possess razor-sharp horns and phenomenal dexterity, and are prized for their milk and flesh. Use statistics for a donkey but add a gore attack (+1 melee, 1d4 damage) and increase Dexterity to 16.

Pickpocket Shrew: These rodent-like creatures measure 6–10 inches in length and make their homes in burrows. Their name comes from the shrews' uncanny silence and penchant for gnawing their way into stores of food while travelers sleep (use statistics for a cat).

The Storm Breaks

By Richard Pett

03 Lamashan, 4707 ar

There comes a point in any climb where mountain and man become one, where the landscape finally dominates your senses and there is only you and it, nothing more.

Our miserable trek across the lesser peaks in the Mindspin Mountains tested my faith in the wayfinder once more, but despite each gully, scree slope, and cliff we had to cross on its whim, I continued to follow its unwavering needle.

We had been climbing all day, and even though we had started at dawn, I hesitated to think we'd make the ridge by nightfall. The pathway (if such a perilous ledge deserves the name) seemed to be without end, and I wondered if I would come across the gods themselves at the summit. At last, the wind picked up and I could hear the roar of it crossing the ridge above. With renewed energy, I jogged the last few steps onto the crest. From my vantage point, I could see a huge bowl of land below, a massive cauldron of dust and stone cowering under a sky thick with the threat of storms. Yet it was not the landscape that held my view.

It was the armies.

A black stain filled the valley, stretching from side to side. Row upon row of dark figures huddled in tight clusters around high banners, too distant for me to make out their emblems. Yet there were other rallying points as well—the lines of severed heads held aloft on spears, or a man-shaped tower of metal cages filled with impaled figures and gibbeted prisoners screaming for mercy while crows swooped and pecked at them. Huge ogres clad in rusted steel wheeled the iron man on the edges of the battlefield, for battlefield it was, or would be when these sickened ants set about each other.

Joskan trudged up toward me. "Resting already?" he asked. Then his eyes fell on the sight ahead and his jaw dropped visibly. "Great. Just great," he said.

"Looks like there's trouble ahead for us," I said, surreptitiously checking the wayfinder, which pointed straight through the valley, with its brooding clouds and teeming hordes. I could see that any deviation would take us onto jagged drops and peaks around this bowl.

"You mean to go straight, don't you?"

I nodded.

"And let me guess—nothing I could tell you about the journey ahead will stop you."

"Correct."

"You do realize that going ahead is certain death?"

"We've been through worse."

"Believe me, we haven't."

I shrugged. "Maybe, but straight is the way we go."

"You've spent too much time amongst the orcs," he growled. "Do you even know what ‘trouble' means?"

"I think so."

"I'll ask you that question again, later." He hooked his thumbs in his pack straps and gazed across the valley. "I can see several tribal banners. And there's a stench like war rhino, unless I'm mistaken." He tossed his head back and gulped at the air.

"War rhino?" Cries of beasts and orcs echoed up to our lofty perch.

"Let's just hope you only get to imagine what they look like." He set down his pack, drew out an empty ration sack, and cut two holes in it.

"So, you're the guide—can we do it?"

He sniffed again and stared at me earnestly. "If we can cross before the battle starts—maybe. But there are two problems."

"Which are?"

"Well, first things first—they'll scent your stink a mile away. Rub this on yourself." He tossed me a small, hard toadstool which, when I did as I was asked, made me reek like the grave.

"I'll not ask what you use this for. And second?"

"Put this on." He threw the sack at me, the rough burlap now complete with two tiny eye-holes.

The sack was tight, and there was a strong smell of oilskins and onions that made my eyes run. The two holes barely allowed me to see anything, and I became instantly afraid of suffocating.

"Good enough, though you'll want to rub soil into your skin and gear to darken it as much as possible. And for the love of the gods, don't say anything—nobody down there will be speaking your tongue, and besides, your reedy voice sounds like a woman's." He had a point about my voice, so I refrained from mentioning that I was actually fluent in Orc, and instead set to work rolling in the dirt, grinding the dark dust into my pores. Finally I stood up, disheveled and reeking.

Joskan looked me up and down. "Good enough," he said. "It'll have to do."

Was that a smile?

We watched the forces below as we ate our meager meal, cutting thin slivers of meat from our rations and savoring each sip of water.

"How soon will the battle start, do you think?" I asked.

"This is no battle," he said. "This is merely a squabble."

I looked at the orcs, hundreds of them, and wondered what sort of disagreement had brought this situation about.

"Very well then, how long before this ‘squabble' becomes nasty?"

He sniffed at the air. "I can smell meat roasting," he said, inhaling greedily. "They're preparing the Last Feast—what some orcs call the Gorging. They will not fight until sundown tomorrow."

"And who is fighting who, exactly?"

"That won't be easy to tell until we get down there and I talk, although I have a nasty feeling that this is a kresk."

"A kresk?"

"A general free-for-all, winner takes all."

"You mean they'll fight until only one tribe is left?"

"Or one orc. We should go."

Descending a mountain is almost as hard as climbing one, and it was dark before we reached the valley. Taking those last few steps very cautiously, we began to close in on the first group of orcs—the perimeter of their camp surrounded by lines of severed heads on crude poles.

"Well, that's good news for a start—the Cleft Head tribe." Joskan's dirty teeth flashed in the collective glow of campfires springing up across the valley, slowly being joined by orc music—a mixture of grunts, shouts, and swearing.

"And it's good news because...?"

"They're wimps, well known for being last into battle and first out. Just thank your puny gods that we didn't have to meet the Defiled Corpse orcs. Now, let's just try to mix in with the group and make our way through as inconspicuously as possible."

Joskan led me through the drunken rabble that formed the Cleft Head tribe. I caught site of at least two giants and a half-dozen ogres as we walked cautiously through the camp. The smell and smoke of charcoal concealed much of the goings-on, but I saw a lot in that first walk. Several orcs charged at each other across a long field and butted each other in a game called "rutt." Others were eating or playing a dangerous gambling game with woodaxes and blindfolds, or else dallying with their grotesque mates in full view of the others. Many of the orcs dragged long lines of heads and skulls behind them, and I was reminded of the daisy chains children on the edges of Barrowood make to ward away wights.

We passed a battle-menagerie, which Joskan whispered was a common enough sight in orc battles: cages of weird, deformed, or just plain violent monsters. I saw tar-daubed griffons and howlers, wolves and scorpions, and several huge creatures for which I had no name.

So taken was I with the sights and smells of the orc camp that I failed to look properly as I was walking and clattered into a huge, brutish orc. I tried to think of the Orc word for "apologies," then realized that there was no such thing. I muttered something under my breath, hunched my shoulders, and attempted to carry on.

Trust me to pick the biggest thug in the camp to bump into—this orc was huge, with a train of eight human heads behind him and a ridiculously large weapon in an oiled sack. Worse, half his face was missing, no doubt the result of a previous battle. Half-Face walked quickly after me, his train of heads bouncing and dragging as he hobbled. A group of smaller but equally ugly orcs followed in the wake of his head-chain, snarling insults. I noticed the head of one lay at right angles to his shoulders, and one side of his face was flat, as though he'd been run over by a cart. A giant, meaty hand landed on my shoulder, spinning me around.

"You smell bad," Half-Face grumbled in Orc. He pinched me hard, then sniffed me again and murmured, "You smell... strange...."

Suddenly Joskan was at my side, breaking the huge orc's grip on my shoulder. "Back off," he snarled. "This one's mine."

"A female!" Half-Face grinned broadly. He stepped back and reached into his sack, drawing forth a ridiculously large three-headed meat cleaver. "I call my weapon Fleshwrecker," he said, eyeing me lasciviously.

"Why?" Joskan asked.

The giant looked momentarily stunned by the question, and I took the confusion as my signal to strike. I stepped forward and punched him hard in the gut, twisting to put my whole body into the blow. He staggered back, and within a second my sword was in my hand. Around us, a space was rapidly clearing. Half-Face eyed my weapon with a mixture of amusement and disgust.

"My brood-mother used to sew clothes with something like that," he chuckled. Then he swung his cleaver heavenward and roared, "Fleshwrecker!"

"Come on, woman!" An orc with a huge slit across his face shouted at me.

"Woman! Woman! Woman!" The orcs around us began to chant, happy for the entertainment. Money changed hands, hands changed hands, heads changed hands as we circled around, eyeing each other, Joskan and I trying to get on either side of Half-Face.

I began to work defensively for position, sure that the cleaver would soon tire its wielder. I dodged several arcing blows before ducking and tumbling past my opponent, who swung one last time and missed, his cleaver sticking into the ground. I turned and thrust my sword into the orc, who merely stared at me, his mouth parting again in that sickening grin. He began to pull the sword out of his wound, yelling and laughing as he did so, only to have Joskan reach around from behind and slit his throat neatly, kicking his feet from under him. Before Half-Face even hit the ground, his kin were falling on the corpse to rob it.

"Beaten by a woman!" a tall brutish orc cried out in laughter. Another orc—one without a nose, ears, or a lower jaw—tried to say something and failed, much to the amusement of the others.

"You'd make a good brood-mother." Slit-Face eyed me with his one good eye, the other lolling blindly whilst his hand fumbled for my shoulder.

"You're not her type." Joskan said, placing a bloody arm between us. Slit-Face paused, obviously considering the odds, then shrugged and moved away.

"That was lucky," said Joskan. "Next time we won't be. Don't let it happen again."

We moved quickly on, trying to mingle with the revelers, who variously staggered and sang and cheered. We were cutting quietly behind a line of jeering orcs when their noise suddenly stopped. The bag over my head left little visibility, but I could tell they were watching something with rapt attention.

"Warriors!" A booming voice split the air above. "Tomorrow we go to victory! Any insult must be avenged, and I, K'zaarg the Drover, will feast on succulent flesh, and the cracklings will be the finest we ever tasted!"

A roar struck up around us, the orcs slapping and grabbing each other, clanging weapons and swearing oaths, headbutting each other and biting their arms until they bled. I was pinched and pushed and prodded until I lost sight of my companion. Suddenly, a massive fist grabbed me from behind. I was carried aloft and turned, coming face to face to bag with an ettin of great size, one head spilt by a terrible wound, the other missing an eye. On its back it had an iron cradle in which stood an enormous orc, his chest bare above rolls of fat and his body so huge that his legs could barely support it. He pointed one thick finger at me.

"Will you kill tomorrow?" the chief shouted.

I nodded.

"Will you rend and bite and gouge?"

I nodded again, gasping as the fist tightened.

"Good, my mighty one." The chief looked away and the ettin lowered its hand, still gripping me tight. "Bring out the Forsaker!" the orc ordered.

A great drum struck up and a pair of mammoths came shuffling slowly through the crowd, driven by a dozen whip-wielding orcs. They dragged a colossus of iron and timber, spikes and corpses into the clearing before the chief—a siege machine of such size as I had never seen. An orc dressed in violet robes and carrying rolls of parchment stood at its summit, surrounded by a dozen ballistae and catapults of enormous size.

"Behold," proclaimed Violet Cloak, "the Forsaker!"

The Forsaker came to a stop with a tremendous grating sound. I could see timbers straining and iron bolts close to popping. From my vantage point, I caught sight of Joskan once more in the crowd, signaling me to remain still.

"Inventor, you have done well. Let us send our enemies a little starting gift!" The chief waved and the orc in the violet robes pushed a lever.

For a moment, nothing happened, then the heavy catapults arced upwards, flinging their loads high into the sky. The crowd cheered.

"Reward the inventor!" the chief yelled.

Orcs love big weapons.

Then something within the straining mass of timbers gave way. In a matter of seconds, the mighty siege weapon—made by orcs who are, on the whole, not noted for their engineering skills—began to unravel. The collapse of the towering weapon took less than a minute—a minute of chaos, splintering wood, and screams. When it finished, the Forsaker lay in ruins, with orcs dying beneath its broken limbs. The orc in violet was dragging himself from the wreckage in terror.

Mocking cries and jeers came from across the valley.

"Take the inventor to the Wheel of Unending Woe!" roared the chief, urging his ettin mount through the crowd. The giant cast me casually aside and I fell heavily on the ground.

I took the momentary confusion as my signal to leave and dashed through the crowd, soon locating my companion, who'd had the good sense not to move in the chaos. Fatigue was taking its toll on me now, and I found my eyes growing heavy. "I'm exhausted," I said.

"We can't be far from the edges of the first camp," Joskan replied, "and I saw signs of the Defiled Corpse tribe ahead. I'll ask around, you rest here." He indicated a large timber crate filled halfway with strange, warm globes. I climbed in and presently found myself drowsing.

Joskan returned shortly.

"So what did they say? Is it the Defiled Corpse tribe?" I asked, anxiously.

"Yes."

"And what did the Cleft Head orcs say about them?"

Joskan made a dismissive gesture. "They said they're crazy."

"Crazy? They're crazy?!"

"That's what they said."

"Any chance we can go through tomorrow? I'm not sure how much more of this I can take tonight."

Joskan nodded and joined me in the hefty crate, half-burying himself in the globes and shutting the lid. Together we fell into an uneasy sleep, surrounded by the sounds of the orc camp, the growl of the thunderclouds, and the voices of orc mothers telling tales to their young about the Happy Fellow—the elf who comes to eat children who smile in their sleep .

I was moving as I woke. My guide had a look of concern as he peered from a crack beneath the crate's lid, his face lit by the drab gray of day.

"This is bad," he said. He looked worried, and I became aware that we were being pulled by something.

"Has battle been joined?"

Joskan's definition of "trouble."

"Yes, but that's not the bad thing." He hauled me upright to the crate's edge, and through the narrow crack I saw that we were being pulled by a great horned beast—a war rhino. Other animals flanked us, some pulling catapults, some simply cavalry, with orcs on their broad backs. The beasts were as big as houses—things of war clad in spikes and leather and whirring blades, great howdahs lashed to the backs of some by tight leather and iron straps that had become part of the creature itself. Others were like living siege engines, with rams and towers and ladders. On each screamed orcs, some firing great ballistae at will and laughing as they did. A huge windmill spun at the top of one howdah, a mass of black ragged sails spinning in the storm, skulls and fleshy heads spiked on its ends.

"What's the windmill for?" I asked, gaping.

"Decoration."

I kept scanning the field and noticed that several beasts pulled catapults with wooden crates loaded and ready to be flung.

Wooden crates like ours. I mentioned as much to Joskan.

"Yes, but that's not the bad thing, either."

"No?"

"No. Now that it's daylight, I've noticed that these globes are full of rockwasps."

"Rockwasps?"

"Hornets about the size of a rat. Sometimes shamans catch 'em and seal them in wax with tiny air holes. They catapult these into battle, and they burst on impact and cause havoc."

"Great."

"Oh, and the sting is fatal."

"Pity you didn't see them last night."

Joskan shrugged. "It was night."

"I thought orcs were good in the dark."

"I was tired, and I'm only half an orc. I have my mother's eyes."

I grimaced and picked up one of the waxy globes very carefully. I could see dark shapes within now, and faintly heard their angry buzzing.

"This, by the way, is what I would define as ‘trouble,'" Joskan said.

So there we were, trapped in a crate of rockwasps about to be catapulted into the air to land, broken, amongst an army of orcs, surrounded by swarming insects whose sting is death.

"Any reason why we aren't even now sprinting for freedom?" I asked.

"Can't," he said, thumping on the roof of the crate, which rose just enough to reveal the weighty padlock thrust through its latch. "They must have locked it sometime during the night, probably to prevent accidental opening during launch."

"I thought you said they wouldn't fight until sundown."

"I guess I was wrong."

"K'zaarg!" A cry came up from the catapult next to us, and the crate on its platform was hurled skyward. I glanced hopefully at my companion, who shrugged his shoulders.

"K'zaarg!" Another crate flew, and another.

The sky broke above us and thunder roared.

"K'zaarg!" an orc voice nearby screamed, and I saw a hand reach for the rope to fire us heavenward.

I closed my eyes.

There was a second yell and a deafening crack as a ball of fire broke above us. An orc fell, screaming as he was crushed under the wheels of our catapult. We saw more bodies fall from the burning howdah. I slapped Joskan's back and laughed, enjoying a moment's relief before the jostling increased and I understood our new fate: our driver dead, the catapult thundered forward into the heat of battle, towed by an out-of-control war rhino.

Joskan began to batter himself against the crate, to little effect. The globes clattered ominously as we crossed the rough terrain. Ahead, through the rain, I could see a cliff approaching. I fumbled in my pockets.

"Keep still, damn it," I said. "I need to concentrate."

"Of course!" Joskan grinned. "A spell for the warping of wood!"

I shook my head, fumbling deeper into my pockets.

"A spell to open locks?"

I sighed.

The rhino sped on, the drop closing.

"A spell for—"

"Shut up!" I yelled, and triumphantly pulled out a tiny piece of shiny stone.

"A pebble to the rescue. Great." Joskan began punching at the crate once more, yelling as he saw the drop closing.

Lifting up the lid of the crate as much as I could, I yelled as I touched the piece of mica to the lock's haft. There was a resounding crack, and then it sundered and split. With a bound, I burst open the lid and leapt for safety, rolling as I hit the ground. I looked back just in time to watch helplessly as Joskan, attempting to do the same, had his axe snag on the lid. He was halfway out of the crate when the catapult vanished over the drop.

I heard a distant crash, followed by the sound of buzzing.

I picked myself up and dashed to the edge, now visible as a low stone cliff some fifty feet high. At its foot lay the crushed remnants of the catapult, pinning the rhino to the ground. Several huge black hornets flew into the air, eager to join the battle. Nearby orcs began to run.

"Lift me up, gods damn it!" My companion clung to the cliff beneath my feet.

"How did you...?"

"I prayed to an orc god at the last moment. Orc gods always listen. Now stop talking and start lifting."

I laughed as I leaned over and pulled him up. The sound of battle intensified all around us, and through the driving rain we could see combat joined on all flanks. I pulled my wayfinder from my shirt and checked it again, then followed its course away from the cliff and into the gray murk ahead.

The smoke and rain turned the battlefield into a muddy swamp in moments, blood mingling with rain and flashing lightning. We fought orcs where we had to and ran past them where we could, our stealth forgotten in the press of bodies. Arrows flew randomly, a burning head sailed past, and a huge rock crashed near us. At last we came out on top of a low hill, from where we could make out our situation better.

The clouds above were almost touching the ground now, so heavy were they with the storm. Lightning flashed down into the battle, some of it no doubt called by orc shamans, and the rain pelted the chaos until it was impossible to pick out who was fighting who.

Then something incredible happened. As Joskan and I looked on in awe, the sky above the battle suddenly howled, and a wavering finger descended from above, a needle of cloud that tore at the ground it touched, dancing across the land and consuming everything in its path. Bellowing its fury, it began to spin, flashes of lightning dancing with it as it rotated faster and faster.

The finger of the gods had come to the battle, a thing the Shoanti have a whispered name for: Yayoncha, the Angel of Storms. The tornado grew in noise and fury as it tore through the battle, lifting orcs and steeds as it raced, an inescapable scream of crushing wind.

Below us, the orcs were laughing. Laughing as the storm tore through their armies, picking up great rhinos and siege machines and bending them like corn in a breeze. Laughing as the roar burst their ears, as weapons and debris—given insane speed by the tornado—flew with terrible effect through weak flesh. Laughed as they rode into battle in a world gone mad with noise and anger and hate.

"Nozalu'rg! Nozalu'rg!" they screamed.

I asked Joskan what it meant.

"Apocalypse," he answered.

I realized that the orcs must think that the world was ending.

And they were laughing.

Our flight from the battle was one that gives me uneasy sleep. After what seemed an eternity, the noise became calm. As distance lost the battle behind us, the blood and combat became merely an uncomfortable memory.

Yet something remains with me still. Something that is beyond explanation.

The laughter of the orcs as they thought their world was ending.

Appendix: Orc Siege Engines

The orcs of Belkzen are fond of using bizarre war machines in their battles, many of them as much deranged works of art as effective weapons. While most of these are designed by the clan-neutral Steeleaters of the Foundry, occasionally orc leaders commission independent designs, with mixed results. A few common types are listed below.

Battle Barrow: This metal-shielded wheelbarrow provides complete cover for the archer hidden inside. The orc conscripted to push it is rarely as lucky.

Crushing Wheel: In close-packed battles, few weapons are as feared as this massive steel rolling pin. Whether pushed by orc or beast, it can be counted on to flatten everything in its path.

Earthmaul: This enormous hammer functions like a sideways-mounted catapult, and is capable of clearing wide swaths of enemies.

Harvester: This aurochs-pulled threshing machine is a long line of whirling blades that can be pulled through battle with great effect.

Manticore's Tail: This massive ballista fires a dozen or more spears at once in a devastating, if wildly inaccurate, rain of steel.

A Friend in Need

By James L. Sutter

07 Lamashan, 4707 ar

If this was ever a good idea—and I'm not saying it was—that time has long since passed. At this point, all that keeps me going is my stubborn desire for completion, a trait that has defined my life and will almost certainly be my death. But not, as it turns out, today.

Between the frothing raiders at the dragon monument and the narrow escape from the clashing orc tribes in the valley, Joskan and I have finally learned our lesson. Forsaking speed for safety, we've resigned ourselves to traveling primarily through the inhospitable foothills of the Mindspins during the day and hiding ourselves well before making camp each night. It's rough going, but we dare not brave the easier (and hence more densely inhabited) plains. As if that weren't trial enough, three days ago the dark gray thunderhead that's loomed over us since we crossed into Belkzen finally opened up and released an unceasing deluge, an ocean of rain that washes the pebbles from beneath our feet and soaks us clear through to the bone. At first we welcomed it, as after the tinder-dry plains of the Storval Plateau I had worried seriously about our water supply, but as the hours turned into days of walking, eating, and sleeping in permanently wet gear, the novelty soon wore off. But there's nothing for it except to turn up our hoods and trudge on. At least we can rest a bit easier where the orcs are concerned—only a complete fool (or, in our case, a pair of them) would be out in this weather, and the raindrops fill the air so thick that anything more than a hundred feet away might as well be invisible.

Joskan has been in a strange mood ever since our encounter with the feuding orc tribes. Never much for talking, the half-orc has grown even more reticent, and rarely responds to questions with more than a grunt. He also occasionally has trouble meeting my eyes, and if I didn't know better, I'd say he almost feels embarrassed. Why is anyone's guess, but I have my theories. Maybe running into the lowland orcs—not just the crazy mountain cannibals, but the more "civilized" tribes of the plains—has reminded him uncomfortably of the heritage he left behind in his flight to Varisia. Maybe he's just ashamed that he, the burly gladiator and supposed expert on the region, had his bacon saved back at the dragon mountain by a comparatively scrawny, bookish Pathfinder.

Whatever the reason, it doesn't matter. The fact is, even my monosyllabic comrade has been enough to raise my spirits higher than they've been since I left the Sklar-Quah. The life of a Pathfinder is one of freedom, of being blown on the wind and riding it wherever the whisper of fame and knowledge calls you, yet it is solitary. Contacts in every town, friends in every city, but a home in none of them. It seems as soon as I start to care for someone, I'm spun away again, and count myself lucky if my brief stay hasn't cost them dearly. Gav. Tomast. Sascha, who gave her life for mine. Not a day goes by that I don't think of them.

Joskan may be brusque and uncouth, but he's a comrade. Someone to watch my back while I sleep, to help tend the fire at night, to laugh when I trip and slide halfway down a mountain on my face, and in doing so make me laugh as well. It's not much, but it's enough. Perhaps I've been alone too long.

In this bleak and unforgiving landscape, it's good to have a friend.

08 Lamashan, 4707 ar

We had crested the easternmost spur of the mountains and were following it southward through a scraggly grove of trees, already barren with winter's approach, when the rain stopped. As dazed as we were, heads bowed against the weight of our packs and locked into the rhythm of our mile-eating shuffle, it took us both a moment to notice. The sudden silence lay thick and heavy on the land. Then somewhere, off in the distance, a bird gave a single, tentative chirp. As if on cue, the clouds above us broke and spilled light over the landscape. I looked at Joskan, and we both stared at each other in disbelief. Throwing back my hood, I shrugged off my pack and leaned my face into the sun, eyes closed, reveling in its warmth. Joskan didn't even bother to remove his gear, just flopped spread-eagled on his back in the mud as if making snow angels, grinning like a dog. We stayed like that for long minutes, feeling the heat travel slowly though our steaming clothes and into their bones. Finally I broke the silence.

"Gods, Joskan, did you ever think such a simple thing as rain could—"

But Joskan wasn't listening to me. Eyes wide, one ear to the ground, he motioned for me to be silent. I froze.

When it came, it was less heard than felt, a low buzzing rumble that traveled up from the ground, through the feet and into the bones, making them vibrate. It was not the rhythmic tramp of an army, nor the pounding clomp of hooves, but rather something different—the sound of a thousand tiny feet stepping lightly, combined with a high-pitched chittering.

I began to ask Joskan about it, but before the words were halfway out of my mouth he was up and running, making for the tallest tree in the copse. "Come on!" he screamed. Without knowing why, I ditched my pack and fled in his wake.

On the horizon, uncomfortably near, a shadow appeared. It spread down the hills toward us at the speed of a galloping horse, flowing like water, filling the valley. As it approached I began to make out individual creatures: huge brown ant-like things, each the size of a full-grown aurochs and bearing a massive pair of scything mandibles.

"Move it, Eando!" Ahead of me, Joskan had already reached the tree and flung himself into its lower branches. Putting on an extra burst of speed, I reached the tree and leapt, barely catching the half-orc's outstretched hand. With a heave, he pulled me up onto the same branch. Below us, the creatures had reached the southernmost edge of the forest, the frantic, scuttling wave breaking and seething through the trees, knocking down some of the smaller ones. I ascended a few more branches to make sure I was safely out of reach, then clung, fascinated, to the trunk as the beasts ran beneath us. They were not exactly like giant ants—too chitinous, and they didn't work together, running right over the top of each other as the stampede swept forward at speed. My pack disappeared beneath them, and I cursed, but was brought out of my reverie by Joskan's scream from above me.

"What are you doing, you idiot? Climb! Climb!"

"But wha—" And then I saw it. A stone's throw away, one of the creatures reared up and snapped its head forward, flinging a line of streaming spittle some thirty feet in the air. Where it landed, plants and ground sizzled and bubbled, melting away to nothing.

I climbed.

Following Joskan's lead, I swung upward with heedless abandon, brachiating like a monkey as I strove to put distance between me and the terror beneath us. Finally, when the branches grew thin and we could go no higher, Joskan and I sat with arms and legs curled around the trunk like sailors in the maintop.

Suddenly the trunk shuddered. Below us, one of the creatures had slammed headlong into it. Despite my most fervent prayers, it looked up, its beady little eyes focusing on us as it circled the trunk. Twice it spat, the line of greasy gray-black acid stripping away entire branches. And then, to our horror, it began to climb the tree with ease.

Joskan groaned, a pitiful sound that frightened me more than anything I'd seen yet. And suddenly, with a clarity born of desperation, the answer came to me.

Ignoring the half-orc's stares, I thrust my hand into my belt pouch, navigating by feel until my questing fingers found the slimy lump of bacon fat. Rubbing it quickly but deliberately between my fingers, I began whispering to the tree in low tones. Finally I withdrew my hand, spat on fingers shiny with fat, and grasped the trunk.

Twenty feet below us, the tree's bole suddenly took on a black, greasy sheen, its sides slick with oil. The ant-beast never had a chance. Scrambling with all six legs, it lost its purchase and fell, landing on its back with a cracking noise. Instantly its fellows were upon it, devouring it before it had a chance to right itself. Then the tide swept onward, and within moments the creatures were gone, racing off into the hills, leaving not a shrub standing.

For a long moment, nobody breathed, then I cut loose with a triumphant whoop. "That's right!" I screamed in the direction the swarm had gone. "Nobody but nobody eats Eando Kline, you bastards!" If my laughter had a tinge of mania to it—well, such things happen. Above me, Joskan only breathed steadily, clutching the trunk. He looked down at me.

"That's the third time you've saved my life," he said.

"Don't worry about it," I replied. "If you hadn't hauled me into the tree, I'd be a smear on somebody's antennae right now. Let's call it even."

"Deal," he said.

But still he looked away.

11 Lamashan, 4707 ar

"I don't like this," I declared, not for the first time. From where we crouched, just shy of the hill's crest, we could see the half-crumbled walls of the castle, its narrow windows flickering with torchlight in the deepening dusk.

"I don't either," Joskan said. "Just trust me. I've got this handled."

According to my guide, the creatures that had overrun us in the grove were known locally as "ankhegs," and generally lived miles to the south in great colonies that the orcs referred to as the Skittermounds. For the most part, the overgrown insects were content to battle among themselves in their massive underground warrens, colony massacring colony in their eternal fight for dominance. Every few years, however, massive rains in the Mindspin Mountains would cause their tunnels to flood, and the ravenous bugs would pour over the landscape in an exodus that could stretch dozens of miles, devouring everything in their path before finally returning home.

No wonder orcs fear the Skittermounds.

In the wake of the swarm, we'd discovered my pack much where we'd left it, its tools half-melted and the foodstuffs scattered and ruined. Thank the gods that I keep both my journal and my wayfinder inside my shirt at all times. Upon seeing the condition of our gear, Joskan sat down heavily and made what was obviously an uncomfortable proposition (not to mention one of his longest uninterrupted speeches to date).

For days, he said, we had been traveling toward Urgir, Belkzen's nominal capital city. The good news was that, of all the settlements in the region, Urgir was the only one where a pinkskin like me could wander relatively unhindered, provided he bore a token from a chieftain granting him the tribe's protection. The bad news was that, in order to get that token, we were going to have to interact with one of the clans, of which his former tribe, the Broken Spine clan, was the closest, safest option.

I was skeptical at first—one might even have said "hysterical." I argued passionately against the idea, on the grounds that every orc we'd met thus far had tried to enslave and consume us, but Joskan was resolved. He wasn't happy about it either, he pointed out, considering he'd made his way to Varisia in order to leave this life behind, but we needed the chief's token, and furthermore, we weren't going to last long in the plains without supplies. Besides, he said, before he'd left, he'd brokered several beneficial deals for the tribe, so sentiment should run in our favor.

So now there we were, perched belly down on top of a hill, preparing to deliver ourselves directly into the hands of the enemy.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Not in the least," I said, but stood up anyway. Together we walked at a quick pace down the hill, feeling entirely too exposed.

The castle was of the standard Lastwall design, one of the many cookie-cutter fortifications stamped out by their government at the end of the Shining Crusade. Over the centuries, the borders of Lastwall have been pushed back several times by the encroaching orcs, but by the size of this fortress I reckoned we'd run across part of the Sunwall, the first great line of castles established after the defeat of the Whispering Tyrant. Either that, or part of Harchist's Blockade, a few centuries later. Several of its walls were crumbled now, the roof of one tower fallen in, and the lights indicated that only a portion of its many-storied bulk was actually in use by the orcs. Nonetheless, it made an impressive sight.

Despite our complete lack of stealth, the sentries at the gate didn't see us until we were practically on top of them, and we had to shout our presence like idiots lest we take a surprised guard's arrow in the gut. Shouts came from inside the walls.

"Hold your spears," Joskan growled in Orc. It was only the second time I'd heard him speak it, and I wondered if he knew that I understood. "It's Joskan. I need to see the chief."

"Joskan!" One of the guards grunted in surprise. "I thought you—"

"I demand to see Chief Kroghut immediately," my guide interrupted. "If it's important enough to bring me back, the chief will have your bowels on a stick for delaying it."

That got a response, and the orcs on guard ushered us in without delay, though many of them kept their weapons ready. I decided I didn't like the way they were looking at us—some were clearly grinning at Joskan, and the smiles didn't seem friendly.

We were led through hall after stone hall, and I was amused to find that the fortress was indeed constructed exactly like Cartov Keep in Vellumis, where I'd once spent several months studying ancient texts. I could practically close my eyes and navigate it. Finally we emerged into a great columned audience chamber, complete with an elaborate throne on a marble dais.

Upon the throne sat a huge orc cradling an impressive spiked hammer, tusks protruding from beneath his lips. His chin rested on one enormous fist, giving him a brooding look, and behind him rose the Broken Spine standard with its gory depiction of the tribe's name, covered in fetishes and trophies.

"Joskan," the chieftain spat.

"Leave the talking to me," Joskan whispered in Taldane, then continued on in Orc. "Fearless, unchallengeable one," he intoned meekly. "May the number of slaves you take be bested only by the number of sons you beget upon them."

The orc chieftain appeared unimpressed. "Have you gone insane in the pinkskins' lands, then?" he asked. "Or have you forgotten that breaking exile means death—the slowest one I can find?"

"I know full well, lord," Joskan said. "But I bring you a gift. This pinkskin with me is a Pathfinder, one of their kind's most knowledgeable. He will undoubtedly be the most useful slave in your holdings. All I ask in return is your forgiveness, and to resume my rightful place in the tribe."

In the shock following his statement, the world around me grew distant, and my ears filled with a roaring that I dimly recognized as my own heartbeat. Betrayed. Impossible. My hands shook, but I kept my face blank as Joskan gave me a friendly smile and a thumbs-up.

"Hmm...." The chieftain considered the bargain for a long moment before finally saying, "Well enough. Take him to the slave pen, then return to me and we'll discuss the further terms of your penance."

"Thank you, lord," Joskan simpered pathetically, bowing low. Two guards approached to seize me.

"What's happening, Joskan?" I asked in Taldane, face still straight.

"They're going to take you to get the documents," he replied. His own face was damp with sweat.

So that was it. After all we'd been through, this was his decision.

"I don't think so," I said in Orc. His eyes widened.

In a single movement, I drew a knife with each hand and flung them hard into the faces of the approaching guards.

"I saved your life, and you sell me out?!" I yelled. To either side of me, the screaming orcs clutched their ruined eyes and fell to the floor in a fountain of gore.

"You said we were even." The big half-orc shrugged, drawing his axe. "It's nothing personal." But by that point I was already in motion.

You have to hand it to Lastwall's military—standardization certainly comes in handy. I doubt if the stupid, inobservant orcs had ever noticed that some of the castle's chambers weren't quite as big as they ought to be. By the time any of the guards knew the jig was up, I was doing the last thing they'd expected: running straight toward the throne where their chief sat. Or rather, just to the right of it. With a kick, the latch behind the loose stone released, and then I was through, the hidden door swinging closed behind me. In the darkness, I groped for the locking bar and found it, sliding it home as frantic pounding began to come from the other side. I gave my eyes a brief moment to adjust to the near-complete darkness, then found the ladder exactly where it was supposed to be and began to climb quickly down into the castle's depths.

Most castles have a bolt hole or priest hole for getting its leaders safely away in the event of the walls being overrun. But in a country like Lastwall, where you've spent generations laying siege to castles or being besieged yourself, you don't stop there. Every one of these castles was riddled with passages to help defenders harry the opposition down to the last man. In this case, that man was me.

While I trusted the door to the throne room to hold, I knew I needed to be careful—now that the orcs knew the passages were here, they'd be looking for them. Silently I moved down thin corridors between walls, passing up and down ladders, and peering through cracks in the stones so small that only the absolute darkness of my passage made the narrow streams of light visible.

Through the cracks I saw the castle kitchens, busily roasting an aurochs haunch in the least sanitary conditions imaginable. I found the slave pens (empty, thankfully), the barracks where off-duty guards fought and gamed, the tribe's meager treasury, and even the chieftain's harem—a sight that I pray to the gods I never see again. At last, high in the topmost tower, I came across the orc lord's sleeping chambers.

Then all I had to do was wait.

Chief Kroghut is hardly the forgiving sort.

To the chieftain's credit, he didn't take any chances. The guards remained on full alert all that night and most of the next before finally deciding that I'd escaped and gone fleeing into the dark. Even so, the chieftain posted two guards at the foot of his bed to watch over him as he slept that night.

They did a good job, too. They never took their eyes off him, not even when the faint puff of magic sand from a hidden passage closed those eyes for them. As the guards slumped unconscious to the floor, I quietly swung open the secret door and padded over to the massive bed where Chief Kroghut slept, the sacred Broken Spine standard propped up behind the headboard. Pressing the point of my dagger deep into his jowls, I rapped sharply on his forehead.

"Rise and shine, Chiefy," I whispered cheerfully in Orc.

He came awake fast, and only my hand on his head kept him from spitting himself on my dagger before he realized the situation.

"Shh...." I cooed, stroking his warty scalp. "You don't want to do that yet. Now: I need a token of yours to get me through Urgir. Where is it?"

The orc gave a grunting laugh.

"You think it's that easy? That I'll just hand one over and let you walk away? Think again, pinkmeat."

I pressed the dagger farther into his quivering wattle. "Are you sure that's your answer?" I asked.

The orc's dark skin paled a little, but he still managed to spit on my shirt.

"Kill me if you want, but my tribe will take you before you've made it five miles. And even if you got to Urgir, you'd be free meat without my mark. And I'm not going to give it to you."

I glanced around the room. Even if I knew what I was looking for, it would take hours to search through the detritus, and even then I had no guarantees that what I sought was here. Piles of clothes and trophies, weapons and other loot lay stacked everywhere, but no sign of the tokens Joskan had spoken of. Beneath my hands, the orc saw my consternation and smirked.

"Fair enough," I said, releasing him long enough to grab the Broken Spine banner. "Then this will have to do." With both hands, I brought the standard down hard on the orc's meaty scalp, snapping the haft and putting him back to sleep. Taking the now-significantly-shorter banner, I crawled back into the secret shaft and began to descend.

I had to move fast. Soon the orcs above would come to their senses, and once they did, they would no doubt tear the castle stone from stone in their eagerness to find me.

So I figured I'd help them.

Farther and farther the shaft sank, until finally the ladder ended in a long, musty corridor. By my estimation, I was down at the level of the castle's foundation, level with the dungeons. And sure enough, next to the ladder was the first firepoint.

Let it never be said that the soldiers of Lastwall weren't practical. While it may have been beneath them to actually salt the earth—not that the orcs would have cared at all, being disinclined toward agriculture—they generally knew better than to leave their abandoned fortress sitting around as spoils for their conquerors. That this firepoint had remained unused bespoke reckless optimism on the part of the castle's former commander, or else the keep's overrunning had been too quick for anyone to think of it.

Regardless, the straw was still dry. Tucking the Broken Spine standard under my arm, I picked up the waiting flint and steel and struck them together. Sparks flew, and the straw caught. As I watched, the tinder began to burn merrily, the fire spreading back into the stone alcove and out of sight. I took a brief moment to light a waiting torch off of the fire, then moved forward down the tunnel.

I passed three more firepoints as I went, and each time my torch set the straw ablaze. By the last, I was all but running. In my mind, I saw the fire spreading upward into the castle, the eager flames consuming the packed straw that lay hidden inside every stone wall, catching the timbers, spreading to the roof. Indeed, the tunnel conducted sound well, and as I listened I began to hear a steady, mounting roar, the combined rumble of a thousand pops and cracklings. Above me, something exploded—perhaps the flames had found the orcs' stores of lamp oil. Yet before I had cause to worry, the tunnel turned outward, and I began to ascend.

I emerged from a turf-covered trapdoor to the east, just out of bowshot of the castle walls. Inside them, the fire was working fast—roofs collapsed, ancient stone crumbled in the heat, and walls fell as their supporting timbers were consumed. Burning orcs flung themselves screaming from windows. I stood there for a long moment, knowing I should be on my way yet unable to tear myself from the beauty of the fire against the starlit sky, the way the light from the flames blended with the first fingers of the dawn. And then, among the shouts and curses, I heard a familiar voice.

I kept my profile low as I approached, my sword at the ready, but none of the panicked orcs even noticed me as I slunk through the eastern gate. Nearby one of the main structures had collapsed violently, filling the courtyard with flaming debris, and what orcs I saw upright were making their way quickly to the keep's western end, which was not yet completely lost. The field was mine. I straightened and looked around.

He was lying face-up in the grass of the courtyard, pinned to the ground by an enormous burning timber across his waist. I was almost on top of him before he recognized me.

"Eando!" Joskan cried, his voice ragged with pain. "Eando, help! Please!" He thrust hopelessly at the beam crushing his legs, but was unable to get sufficient leverage to budge it. I stood over him, a silent silhouette. His eyes met mine, and beneath his sloping brow they were wet with tears.

"Please..." he whispered.

There are many measures by which to judge a man, but how he treats those who have wronged him is chief among them. Helping Joskan up was the right thing to do, the only ethical choice.

But I didn't.

Instead I leaned low over the burning timber and rubbed my hands together, warming them over the flame.

"Sorry, Joskan," I said. "Nothing personal."

Then, with the burning towers falling in noisily behind me, I hoisted my new standard and began the long, lonely walk to Urgir.

Appendix: Orc Tribes

The Hold of Belkzen has no centralized government. Instead, the region is populated by dozens of orc tribes of various sizes, constantly warring and forming strategic alliances. Each is ruled by a chieftain or warlord, though very rarely a pair of brothers or equally matched warriors might grudgingly share rule. Most of these tribes are nomadic, occasionally staking territories but changing them at will to reflect the migration of aurochs and other food sources. The exception to this is the lucky clan whose savvy leader manages to hold a fortress or settlement, such as Grask Uldeth of the Empty Hand who rules Urgir, or Tulluk Clovenface and his Haskodars who are currently ascendant in Blisterwell.

An orc is fiercely loyal to its tribe, if not necessarily to any particular member, and while intertribal mating is common, females are generally taken from their male relatives by force and absorbed into their mate's tribe. Tribal names are almost always graphic and intended to strike fear into their opponents, and prominent orc tribes in Belkzen include the Murdered Child, Empty Hand, Haskodar, One Eye, Cleft Head, Broken Spine, Gutspear, Twisted Nail, Skull Eater, Wingripper, Black Sun, and Blood Trail tribes.

Pink Like Me

By James L. Sutter

17 Lamashan, 4707 ar

Belkzen is a hard land, and each day I'm here, I grow harder as well. A year ago, the sight of Joskan's face as he lay pinned beneath the burning timber, his screams as I turned my back, would have haunted me, the guilt almost unbearable. Now his name is already fading, erased further with each shuffling footfall, buried beneath each puff of sun-scorched dust. It's a terrible thing for a man to grow cold. But I'm managing.

For several days following the fire, I had walked east across the Hold's sparse fields, digging myself shallow trenches to sleep in during the day and traveling by night, silent as a ghost. With Joskan gone, there was no longer any need to make noise. I ate, I slept, and I followed the wayfinder. That was all.

Now, however, things were changing. Looming out of the rolling grasslands, a vast and white-walled city rose from the earth like a many-layered cake, tier upon tier of stone buildings and monuments forming a mountain that glimmered in the morning sun. Once, I knew, this had been Koldukar, one of the great dwarven Sky Citadels, massive fortresses built when the stout folk first emerged onto Golarion's surface. Now it bore another name, one bestowed by the great orc warlord Belkzen himself: Urgir, meaning "First Home." Several times during my approach, I curved well out of my way in order to triangulate headings with the wayfinder and see if there might be some way to avoid passing through its walls, but all to no avail.

Fortunately for me, most of the caravan traffic entering and leaving the city appeared to be doing so to the north, via the vast dried riverbed known as the Flood Road. Standard or no, I didn't trust the goodwill of the residents just yet, and I kept well clear of the occasional dust cloud kicked up by travelers as I skulked to within bowshot of one of the main gates, breaking up my profile by keeping to the tallest grasses. Finally, though, the ground turned to packed dirt, and I was left with few options. Holding the tattered standard of the Broken Spine clan crosswise above my head, I walked quickly and purposefully toward the small group of orcs lounging next to the monolithic stone doors of the gatehouse.

It took a moment for them to register what they were seeing, and I had covered half the ground between us by the time they had pulled themselves upright on their spears, sneering and pointing. In terms of appearance, they were much the same as the orcs of the Broken Spine clan, but their spears and armor appeared to be in better repair—perhaps pickings were better in the city. In addition, each bore a breastplate adorned with a crude painting of a black fist. I approached and stopped just short of skewering range.

"Ho there! I am a trader and emissary seeking entrance to the city," I said, not caring that the claim was ludicrous, given my meager pack.

One of the orcs snorted.

"In's not the hard part, pinkskin," he laughed. "Out's more'n your worry."

"Nevertheless, you will let me pass," I said.

His face hardened at my tone, and he started forward. "Maybe a piece at a time," he growled, but before he could get farther, a shadow dropped over him, and a monster stepped out from behind the curtain wall.

Now I could see why the orcs had seemed so lackadaisical in their guard duty. The ettin that emerged from the shadows of the gatehouse was nearly as tall as the fortifications themselves, towering above its companions. Almost completely naked, the shambling behemoth had vaguely porcine features, seemingly a grotesque blending of orc and giant. More disturbing than its stature, however, were its two heads—one, apparently the dominant, stared straight at me with rheumy eyes, while the other stared off into space and drooled. Around the neck of the former swung a pendant bearing the black hand symbol. The beast hefted two spiked clubs, each thicker than my chest.

"Whossat?" It gurgled.

The orcs, who had been confident a moment before, were still snickering, but now they backed slowly away to leave a direct path between me and the giant.

"Pinkskin come to make trouble, Wargus," one of them called. "Squish him, yeh?"

The ettin looked back at me, obviously sizing up how much trouble something my size could be. Taking the initiative, I stepped forward.

"I'm just a trader seeking entry. By the laws of your city, you must let me pass."

The giant perked up. "Token?" it asked.

I held up the broken standard, and the giant's brows furrowed like a stymied toddler.

"Not token," it grunted, raising its clubs to swing.

"No," I continued, striding boldly forward, bloodstained banner raised. "And I don't need one. You recognize this banner, and you know what it means. To let it touch an enemy's hand would shame the entire Broken Spine clan, and they'd all die to defend it. Yet here I am, unscathed. Obviously, I have their blessing. Tokens would be redundant."

One of the orcs started to speak, but I ignored him and pressed on, eyes still locked with ettin, who appeared uncertain once more.

"More importantly, you know what the penalty is for disobeying the lord of Urgir. So as I see it, you have two choices: You can let me pass, and get back to squeezing travelers for bribes, or you can continue to stand in my way and see what happens when the ones who gave you that," I used the standard to gesture at the badge around his neck, "find out you waylaid a foreign emissary with official business under the protection of the Broken Spine." I stopped moving, close enough now to smell the giant's pungent reek of sweat and livestock, craning my neck to look up at his two heads. With both hands, I held the standard horizontally between us, its haft flat against the ettin's belly.

"Now choose," I said, and shoved.

To my surprise, the mountain of greasy flesh fell back, moving once more into the shadow of the gatehouse.

"Pass," it growled. Behind me the orcs snorted in astonishment, but seemed unwilling to contradict their massive idiot guardian. Unhampered, I moved through the gate and into the teeming streets of Urgir.

One would have thought that passing through Urglin would have prepared me for what I found, but in fact the opposite was true. Whereas Urglin was squalid through and through, a festering and fortified sore spreading from the banks of the Ooze, this was for a short time one of the greatest cities of the ancient world, and not even a hundred generations of degenerate rule could tarnish it completely. Before me stretched huge boulevards paved with marble fit for a throne room, winding between breathtaking statues and buildings that seemed to grow from the stone itself. Supported by vast arches and buttresses, buildings crowded one atop another in a seemingly endless heap, serviced by soaring elevated avenues and thoroughfares that became tunnels into the city's heart, where the architecture was so dense as to become subterranean. This was the lifework of generations of the dwarves' master builders, a triumph of engineering and the imagination.

And then it fell. After my initial moment of appreciation, I began to notice the evidence of degradation. Here a statue had been crudely defiled, there a line of crumbled buildings sloughed down the urban mountain like a landslide. Stonework meant to last millennia cracked and buckled under the stress of ancient wounds. Sewage filled a cistern. And everywhere—everywhere!—throngs of orcs milled and shouted, fought and groped. This was their capital. This was First Home. Gathering my nerve, I strapped the standard securely to my back, gripped my sword, and plunged into the crowd.

I appeared to be in the market district, which I counted as lucky. All around me, vendors hawked and haggled, the only difference between here and other cities being the increased violence—indeed, the best merchants seemed to be the burliest and most scarred. Surprisingly, I saw a number of fellow humans in the crowd, albeit keeping a relatively low profile and moving with purpose. I even saw a well-dressed elven trader, his stall of magical curiosities flanked on either side by two especially bestial orc guards. Definitely no dwarves, though—I tried to imagine the shame one of their kind would feel upon seeing a site of such historical significance swarmed over by their ancient enemy, and failed. Attachment to places is a liability in my line of work.

Eager to replace the supplies lost in the ankheg stampede, I searched in vain for a fellow human merchant, settling for one of the smaller orc vendors. No sooner had I taken a step that direction, however, than a hand closed on my shoulder.

"Stop," a deep voice barked, and I spun with one hand on my sword, knocking away the offending arm.

Before me, in a ragged semblance of military formation, stood six orcs carrying spears, several of them pointed casually in my direction. Upon all of their chests hung the same black-fisted icon as the gate guards. The largest reached up with casual disdain and grabbed my shoulder once more, thick nails biting through my clothes.

"You will come," he grunted. "If you fight, you will be broken, and then you will come."

There's brave, and then there's stupid. With odds like these, in a city like this, the two look an awful lot alike. Lifting my hand slowly away from my sword, I moved to the center of the group and let the unit march me farther into the city, the crowd parting around us.

Before long we came to a squat, bunker-like building where several similarly garbed orcs milled about throwing dice and wrestling. Above the doorway, a shield bearing the black fist hung above crossed spears. Beneath this awning we passed, and the transition from bright sunlight to near-perfect darkness left me blinking. Makes sense—having originated underground, the orcs were undoubtedly adapted for it.

Most of the guards—and here I made an assumption, for despite their appearance, their actions bespoke authority—peeled off at this point to join their fellows, leaving only two to guide me through the darkness to a heavy wooden door. Eyes still straining, I was walked through it into a new chamber, this one thankfully illuminated by a single candle and unexpectedly furnished with a table, chairs, and a few pages of parchment scattered across the table's scarred surface.

Looking up from his seat behind the desk was a bizarre figure. While obviously once tall and broad-shouldered, the orc's thin frame was hunched and bent, and long, stringy white hair hung around his face. I realized with a start that this was the first truly aged orc I had ever seen—I suppose their society isn't conducive to long lifespans.

"This him?" the old one inquired with a rasping wheeze.

In response, one of my handlers pulled the Broken Spine standard from my pack and tossed it on the table. The white-hair nodded in approval.

"Good. Go." The two guards turned and left without any salute that I could notice—apparently obedience was obeisance enough in this place. I was left standing alone, unhindered, while the old orc fondled the banner and chuckled to himself. After a moment, he looked at me again.

"Tell me how you got this," he demanded.

"I'm an emissary and trader from lands west of here," I said. "The Broken Spine clan allows me to carry this to prove I act with their blessings."

"Really," the orc said, and the word was not a question. Faster than I could blink, the old one scooped a dagger off the table and whipped it overhand, sending it whistling past my ear and burying it deep in the wooden door. Apparently you don't make it that long as an orc without quick reflexes.

"Are you sure that's your answer?" he asked, voice flat.

As a rule, I don't like to tell anyone more than they need to know, but with the dagger still humming softly behind me, this seemed like a good time to make an exception. Too tired to lie, I told him the entire story of my travels since entering Belkzen, leaving out only my quest with the wayfinder. The old orc listened quietly, eyes shining with delight at my description of Chief Kroghut's humiliation and Joskan's betrayal. When I was finished, he chuckled again.

"Another Pathfinder come to Urgir—Chief Uldeth's dream is coming true. Urgir will grow fat, and the Empty Hand will be first among tribes." He tapped the ornate black-fist emblem that hung from a necklace of teeth and sinew.

"Another?" I asked.

"So you didn't know," the old one replied. "Interesting. Yes, one of yours came through several months ago."

"Do you know where he went?" I pressed, thinking of my wayfinder. The orc cackled.

"Straight to the palace, upon order of Grask Uldeth himself. He never came out."

I pondered that for a moment, while the orc stroked the banner once again. Finally, he spoke.

"Your tale is good, pinkskin," he said. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were one of us."

He hefted the banner. "This is not a token, manchild. This is an insult to the entire Broken Spine clan. Which is why I'm going to trade you a token for it. The Broken Spine cowards are no friends of the Empty Hand, and to see Kroghut shamed by a pinkskin is priceless. In exchange, you will be free to wander Urgir as you see fit, unmolested. Agreed?"

Seeing little choice, I nodded, and the old one tossed me a thong bearing a horn plaque, different than his own but still blazoned with the black fist. I slipped it over my head.

"Thank you, constable…?" I ventured

The orc snorted. "Just Ardax," he said. "Ardax the White-Hair. Titles are for those without reputations." Raising his voice, he called out to the two guards who had brought me in, who appeared immediately.

"Take this one out to the street and release him into the care of his own kind," he ordered.

Grabbing my arms, the two guards marched me out to the front of the building, then stopped and scanned the crowds of bustling passersby until they saw the telltale flash of pale flesh. With a whistle and a gesture, they summoned over a slightly portly man just shy of middle age, well dressed and with his own token prominently displayed. He bowed low as he approached, cringing.

"Y-yes, lords?" he quavered.

"Take this one," they ordered, gesturing for me to go with the newcomer. "Keep him out of trouble." I needed little urging, and quickly moved to the man's side, following him as he backed away with another series of low bows.

The stranger turned out to be a merchant of a fairly decent sort, an antiquities trader from Nirmathas named Brunoe. Once back in the markets where he felt more at home, he lost some of his sheepish demeanor and explained in low tones how things worked in the city. Apparently Grask Uldeth, leader of the Empty Hand tribe, had held the city unequivocally for the last two decades, and had recently raised his aim even higher. Envying the way monarchs in human lands sat back and let wealth come to them through taxes and trade, he began instituting a series of heavy-handed policies designed to make the city more appealing to foreigners. Chief among these programs were the badges we now wore—while human slaves might be a hot commodity in Urgir, anyone bearing a token was not to be touched except by order of Uldeth himself.

"And that actually works?" I asked, having difficulty imagining the typically anarchic orcs succumbing to such comparatively harsh restrictions.

"See for yourself," Brunoe replied, gesturing skyward. For the first time I took a moment to stop and observe the strange crenellations on many of the surrounding rooftops, staring long enough to note they weren't stonework at all, but rather dozens of green-skinned orc heads impaled on spikes. The grisly display continued all the way down the central strip of the marketplace.

"Comforting," I said.

"Isn't it, though?"

Two heads, and not half a brain between them.

Unfortunately, Brunoe explained, just because the orcs weren't allowed to enslave and eat you didn't mean life in Urgir was all pie and roses. As with any city, foreigners were a target. Merchants tried to cheat you. Thieves stole your goods. Locals blamed you for their problems. And of course, though you couldn't legally be slaughtered, that didn't mean you were any less likely to be stabbed in the back and robbed, just like any other citizen. Even as he accompanied me in re-supplying, I began to see what he meant. Children threw stones and then disappeared into allies. Passersby made a point of slamming into me with their meaty shoulders, several times almost sending me to the ground. After one particularly obvious jostling, I turned to pursue the laughing orc, but Brunoe's hand stopped me.

"Just keep your head down and don't make trouble," he said. "This is what they do. Shrug it off." I gritted my teeth, but said nothing. Soon we came to a stall that sold some of the basics of outdoor life—I could replace things like rope and tindertwigs, which the giant insects had carried off and scattered—and I waited patiently as an orc before me cursed, shouted, and threatened violence before finally paying for his goods and leaving, not appearing overly dissatisfied. Stepping up to the counter, I had the surly shopkeeper lay out a nearly identical package, for which he quoted me an outrageous price.

"I'll take the same price as the orc who just left," I said.

"Try it, runt," the merchant countered. Before I could go on, Brunoe stepped easily between us and took over the bargaining. Though he was masterful—going from pleasant tones to high rage and back again in instants—he was unable to get the price lower than double what the orc had paid. Reluctantly, I accepted, handed over the coins, and turned to leave. Behind us, there was a hacking noise, and something wet hit the back of my neck.

"Pinkskins."

I turned back toward the grinning shopkeeper, my sword halfway out of its scabbard, but again Brunoe stopped me.

"Head down," he said, his own eyes lowered and studiously staring off into the distance as he wiped the greasy spittle from his cheek. "Walk away."

It took every ounce of my strength, but finally my gratitude to the little man won out and I did as he said. Together we returned to Brunoe's own stall, a display of rare and sometimes magical works of art from throughout the ages, guarded by a several silent but effective orc mercenaries. While there were few in Urgir looking to buy such wares, numerous unsavory characters found the city a treasure trove of dwarven artifacts, and were eager to unload such items for coppers. Sharing a similar passion for history, if not the adventurous manner in which I pursued it, the merchant was eager to hear stories of my life as a Pathfinder, and I regaled him gladly in exchange for lunch.

At one point during our repast, we were interrupted by a deep rumble, a bass growl that seemed to come from the stones themselves. In the streets, people stopped, many of them taking cover in nearby buildings as the ground began to shake. After a moment it passed, and people resumed going about their business as if nothing had happened.

"Earthquake," Brunoe explained. "Happens all the time. Occasionally something collapses, but for the most part, they're not dangerous."

He continued to press me for stories of my wanderings, but all the talk succeeded in reminding me of my original intentions in Urgir. Checking my wayfinder, I saw that it pointed due east down the wide boulevard, past the market strip and out of the light entirely, into the subterranean warren of structures hidden by the rising towers. As he'd already come in handy once that day, I asked Brunoe to be my guide. He agreed readily, then promptly choked on his bread and cheese as I pointed into the darkness.

"You don't know it, but you're insane," the merchant said. "The outer city is bad enough, but to go inside the warrens—that's their ghetto, where the orcs who don't have the money or temperament to interact with the rest of the world live. It's dark, it's dangerous, and it's absolutely out of the question."

"I'll pay you," I offered.

"I appreciate the offer," he replied, "but taking you through there would be instant death, token or no. I flatly refuse to die for anything less than ten gold."

"Eight."

Orcs rarely live to reach old age.

"Sold. I'll get some torches."

Lights in hand, we walked east along the broad street, quickly passing into the shadows of the buildings above us. Before long, their foundations arched over our heads and met, turning the road into a massive tunnel beneath the many layers of city above. Inside, things were closely packed, dirtier, more like Urglin. It was clear that this section was not visited by outsiders often, and many were the hard stares and catcalls we received as we progressed. The architecture here was a strange mishmash—obviously the dwarves, being creatures of the earth themselves, had built these tunnels with care, carving out great vaulted halls and chambers that were just as much part of the city as the sunlit streets. Yet alongside the monuments sat newer, ragtag constructions, lean-tos and shanties assembled from broken chunks of masonry and debris. Refuse covered the streets, and at one point I narrowly escaped a rain of offal from an upper-story gallery, the contents of someone's chamber pot spattering my shoes. Judging by the ensuing laugh, I doubted it was an accident. Jaw tense, I kept walking. Shortly thereafter, Brunoe stopped at a crossroads where several tunnels met, orcs traveling this way and that with more purpose than before. At the corners, vast spiral staircases led up into the ceiling, presumably to the other layers of city I'd viewed from afar.

"This is the central crossing for this level," my guide informed me. "Choose your direction—everything leads back out into the light, and I could stand to be done with the smell in here sooner rather than later."

Nodding my agreement, I withdrew my wayfinder and checked the needle, which still pointed due east. "It seems we may have passed through here for nothing," I said. "We're still head—"

A heavy shoulder slamming into mine combined with an outthrust leg to knock me to the floor, my pack falling open and disgorging some of its contents onto the filthy stone.

"Watch it, pinkskin," the orc snickered, not even breaking stride.

For a brief second, everything froze. Onlookers smirked at my fall. Brunoe's mouth was open, no doubt choked with platitudes. My heart beat loud in my ears, pulse making the veins in my temples throb. I took a single, deep breath. And then I was on him.

The orc didn't expect it, and so he didn't see it. Cocking my legs, I launched myself at him, colliding with the center of his back in a flying tackle that took us both to the ground. His hands found my shirt and tore at me, but I tangled my own in his long, greasy hair and began to methodically slam his face into the stone floor, each hit punctuating my fevered words.

"That's right," I yelled. "That's right, you son of a bitch! That's what you get for messing with a godsdamned pinkskin." With a heave I rolled him over and began to work him with my fists, sending blow after blow into the bloody ruin of his face as he wailed and attempted to choke me. "Who's the pinkskin now?!" I asked, smearing blood across green skin with my knuckles. Then I found a rhythm and settled into it, closing my eyes and seeing different faces. Joskan. Devoren. The hellknight who killed Sascha.

From behind me, Brunoe made a feeble cry, and I looked up to see him standing off to the side with a hand over his mouth. All around us, orcs were moving in toward the fight. I paused in my pummeling long enough to rise up on my knees, still straddling the orc's waist, and lift the blood-spattered token from my chest.

"You know what this means!" I roared. "It means you can't touch me!" I brandished it like a holy symbol, and the onlookers fell back obligingly. I howled with pure, animalistic delight, my rage and shame and frustration with everything that had happened since leaving Magnimar boiling out in that cry.

"Diplomatic immunity, you bastards!" I screamed, and slammed my fist home one last time, then knelt there breathing heavily, head down and shaking. A moment later, I felt Brunoe's tentative hand on my shoulder.

"Eando? You alright?" he asked.

I sighed, one long breath of letting go.

"Yeah," I said. "Sorry. Bastard had it coming."

"Of course," he replied. "And you certainly showed her."

My eyes flew open.

"What did you say?" I asked, but even as I did, I was looking down, past the green skin and armor, the bulky clothes and corded muscle, seeking the telltale curves.

"Just that I bet she'll think twice before picking on a pinkskin again."

A woman. Gods.

Standing slowly, I moved away from the groaning form on the ground, leaning on Brunoe for support.

"Come on, Brunoe," I said. "Let's get out of here."

Walking quickly, heedless of the stares at my bloodied clothes, the two of us followed the wayfinder's heading east, through another long tunnel. At last we emerged on the other side of the city, stepping out into a wide plaza that stretched for hundreds of yards before ending in a towering keep, larger than any of the buildings I'd seen so far.

"That's the great palace, the chieftain's seat," Brunoe said, gesturing at the structure. "That's where Grask Uldeth lives and rules. This," he said, gesturing to the immense stretch of flat marble, unbroken by so much as a bench, "is the Plaza of Sky." He pointed at my feet, and I saw that though the entire thing could be called white, slight gradations in the coloring formed a vast mosaic depicting scenes of caverns and subterranean cities, dwarves and other underground creatures. "This represents the past, everything over which the dwarves triumphed to burst forth and build this place." He paused. "For a time, anyway. The orcs have left it untouched, as in a way, it represents their own struggle."

Fascinating as it was, I couldn't quite bring myself to get excited over the history. Instead, I pulled forth my wayfinder to take another reading. And blinked.

The needle was spinning free.

"Impossible," I breathed. While Brunoe looked on, I scampered back and forth across the plaza like a madman, attempting to get some sort of reading. Nothing. Not so much as a quiver.

"So what do I do now?" I asked nobody in particular. Throwing my head back, I screamed at the sky. "I'm here!" I announced. "Now what?" In response, I received only Brunoe's concerned expression.

"Sorry," I said, slumping back against the tunnel entrance and letting the wayfinder drop, its thong swinging it against my chest with a thump. "It's just that I've just been following this thing for so long.…"

"Maybe you still can," Brunoe offered. I glanced up, and he gestured toward my chest.

I looked down at the wayfinder, held vertical against my shirt by the thong around my neck. From this angle, the needle was indeed pointing again.

Straight down.

"Oh," I said.

Fear in a Handful of Rust

By Jay Thompson

22 Lamashan, 4707 ar

Never let it be said that we Pathfinders are an impractical lot. Charmed and cursed, often at the same stroke—yes. Dropped time and again into unfortunate situations—sure. But if I were to write my own epitaph (and this journal might be just that), it would read, He followed his luck, and did what he had to.

The streets thickened with midday crowds as I approached the gates of Grask Uldeth's palace. After that confusing moment in which my wayfinder had spun free in the Plaza of the Sky, only to end up pointing straight down, I had quickly concluded that my course now required me to find a way beneath the city proper, perhaps into the Darklands themselves. The rumor mill might grind slow, but it grinds fine, and after a few days of asking questions I got what might be the best tip and the worst news of this whole adventure—that, in all of Urgir, the only known remaining entrance to the Darklands opened beneath the orc chieftain's palace itself. It had taken several barrels of pricey rotgut and a few favors for a wealthy orc war-machine supplier to glean even that much. (The favors I'll leave out for the time being, save to say that stealing from the worshipers of Rovagug is not something I'd recommend for those who value their skins.)

Uldeth's palace still showed its dwarven origin. Its vaulting walls, with barred windows and arrow-notch defense points, rose above the filthy chattering throng of orcs, humans and slaves in the creeping half-light of Urgir. Its torch-burnt facade and its ragged banners, fastened by brass rings to the palace's turrets with war-rhino horns, spoke to its new ownership, and suggested an orc's idea of grandeur. The orc weapon-monger had told me that I should arrive at midday, and that an escort would announce itself.

Was that ever an understatement! I had stood by the palace gate for no more than a minute when the great doors cracked apart and brought me face to face with an immense, hideous half-orc wearing the trappings of the sadistic engineers known as Steel Eaters, his nose and ears scarred down to nubs and his one remaining eye as big as the palm of my hand. I'd met friendlier faces in the killing fields of the orc kresk.

"In the name of His Gruesomeness and His Benevolence, the Great Chieftain Grask Uldeth," rumbled the massive orc, somewhat mechanically, "whose nails run red with gore, whose boots we are not worthy of being trod beneath, whose piss is our wine, I bid you welcome."

He paused. My bones were still rattling from the depth and rumble of his voice; my hair was still curling from his breath. The huge orc was flanked by two others. With a mostly steady hand, I drew out my token.

"Pinkskin!" the huge orc boomed. "Urgir is a welcoming city." The words must have sounded strange, even to him. Uldeth was clearly ordering his soldiers to try their best. "Uldeth hears all, and knows of your coming."

"—Yes?" I managed.

"I bid you welcome. Follow."

He followed his luck, and did what he had to. A surreptitious glance told me my wayfinder still pointed straight down.

How had I gotten here? Orcs as a race are not exactly known for observation of decorum, but I still could hardly believe the good fortune provided by my bad manners. I was getting an audience simply by showing up.

As we followed a wide torchlit corridor into the palace, I studied the architecture. The dwarves who had built this palace and fought to the death to defend it knew what they were doing, no question. The masonry—even where smeared with filth or blackened with lamp oil—was faultless, the vaults worked with intricate designs only half-effaced by the chisels of the latest residents. Scrawled upon the walls, at something closer to orc height, were pictographs of great orc victories and slaughters, done with cave-painting energy and crudeness. The earth under the palace trembled once in one of the brief tremors I was already growing used to, a grind and rattle at the edge of hearing, but the masonry didn't budge. Where torches and lamps had sputtered out in the long palace corridors, the big orc steered us through passages of treacherous darkness, where I knew which way to step only by the puffing and gurgling of the guards' breath. I was briefly sorry I'd left Brunoe behind, but the timid merchant was undoubtedly happier this way.

A noise I first took for my pulse slowly mounted, until I realized I was hearing drums. One more sharp turn and I saw we had arrived at Uldeth's throne room.

A dank smell of burning peat filled my lungs. A vaulted ceiling covered with a dwarven mosaic soared over the hall; smoke-fogged bay windows admitted a weak, milky light, gleaming over a hall of crude gold and iron statues of massive orc warriors. In the room's corners, torches burnt against the daylight, and orcs beat wide drums slowly with mallets made from awfully human-sized femurs. A straight row of hulking orc guards, all bearing the black fist emblem of the Empty Hand tribe, stood at attention.

Before me stood a tremendous orc clad in black and violet, his smile a knife wound across his face.

I gaped. Next to him was a tall, severe man, well dressed and with straight black hair that hung to his shoulders. At his belt hung an ornate rapier, and a large leather-bound tome under one arm identified him as easily as the ink staining his fingers

The Pathfinder.

The orc captain growled and knelt, like a tree bending. His two guards knelt beside him with a scrape of armor. The regal orc motioned, and with a perfect smile, the human stepped forward and bowed. "On behalf of the benevolent chieftain of Urgir, Grask Uldeth, and borne forward by the honorable Will of the Ten, I, Arnois Belzig, Pathfinder and humble advisor and historian to the Lord of Urgir, welcome you."

It's been a long time. I struggled for a moment to remember the formal greetings between Pathfinders. The three orcs around me remained stooped in a bow. "For the glory of the Pathfinders, the Will of Ten, and the memory of Durvin Gest," I said, "I, Eando Kline, thank you for your welcome."

I turned to the huge orc that must be Grask Uldeth and gave my deepest bow. "Benevolent Lord of Urgir, I thank you for your welcome."

Uldeth nodded. He gave another wave. As silently as they could manage, the three guards rose and withdrew, shuffling backward out the door of the throne room. It shut with a disturbingly final boom.

I rose. How to proceed? Belzig watched me, his expression cool.

"My lord," I said to Uldeth, "thank you for sparing the time to see a Pathfinder."

The orc smiled. I could see his teeth were white—the first white teeth I'd ever seen in an orc's head. "I have found my relationships with your society… immensely beneficial," he said in a growl. Then he turned suddenly and walked away, stopping at an elaborately patterned table with legs made of worked bone. He mounted two steps to a chair set on a dais before it, leaving me standing there below him. Belzig stood beside his chieftain. They waited. After a long moment I broke the silence.

"My lord," I began. "Might I ask that our audience—" I looked around the chamber, then at Belzig, who smiled faintly, "be private? For my situation—"

The orc lifted his hand, cutting me off. He rumbled, "Grask Uldeth strives to make this city welcoming to all. Secrets among its members benefit no one." I winced. "In the last week, several of Rovagug's faithful who opposed an arrangement with the Steel Eaters were robbed. Now a strange human asks for an audience, through one of the weaponsmiths' key traders." Uldeth looked at me. "Perhaps this new human is capable of more than he appears. I don't know. But," and here his voice lowered, "I know he has a secret." Uldeth's teeth sparkled in the torchlight. "Urgir does not care for secrets."

Uldeth waved, indicating his throne-room guards, still at attention with a discipline alien to their race. "Secrets are the privilege of rule, and Grask Uldeth confers with only one human alone." Belzig bowed again. With our great stores of knowledge and our gift for unlocking secrets, Pathfinders make great assets to kings, chieftains, and lords—but to be kept as a pet has always seemed to me completely at odds with the heart of our trade. I despised this sycophant already.

"Now," the orc lord said, settling back in his chair, "what does this human ask of the Empty Hand?"

I took a deep breath. "Lord Uldeth," I began. "I have been tasked with following certain visions granted to me by unknown forces, forces which have guided me here, and now direct me to descend beneath the city. As the only remaining entrance to the world below lies under your palace, I must fall on your benevolence. I ask no assistance, only a lack of hindrance. In the interest of discovery and the friendship of the Pathfinder Society, will you grant me passage?"

Neither Belzig nor the orc chieftain budged for a moment. The only sound was the crackle of the burning torches. In their absolute stillness, I sensed a communication I couldn't decipher. Then the orc, without turning to his advisor, shook his head slightly. "My chronicler and I," the orc lord growled, "will discuss this." Belzig nodded, smooth as butter. "And you, Pathfinder, will wait here."

He stepped down from his dais and swept out of the room to a small antechamber, Belzig at his side. At his exit, the drummers in the corner beat out a flourish with their bone mallets. Two of the unsettlingly silent guards suddenly appeared on either side of me.

I waited.

Suddenly the door to the antechamber banged open. "Eando Kline!" Belzig called out. I turned to look. A smile, all simple generosity, covered the Taldane's face. "Great news."

Grask Uldeth lumbered back into the room. The drummers beat and the orc guards behind me stiffened.

"Pathfinder Eando Kline," he grunted, "what is it that you expect to find in the Darklands?"

I answered honestly. "I have no idea, Lord."

He laughed—a sound like a millwheel grinding sand—and said, "You're wiser not to speak. Even if you knew, you would keep your own counsel."

"As you say, Lord."

"Very well." He clapped his hands together, an unsettlingly human gesture. "My shamans of the Rough Beast will open the way to the city's foundations, and you'll have your admittance. The condition is thus: Grask Uldeth leads an open city, one welcoming to all. You enter this portal only because of this generosity. Spread word of my gesture."

I bowed my assent, and he chuckled again.

"Pray you find what you seek quickly, pinkskin. The ways beneath were sealed with good reason, and by those who once called them home. I expect you to return shortly, or not at all." He waved to Belzig.

"Take him there."

Like the lees spilling from a tipped wine cask, the bricks of the chamber's floor slid back into place over my head. I murmured a few words of a light spell, and a globular glow gathered a few feet before me and shone down the mildewed steps—frail light at first, then rising as the torchlight from the chamber above was blocked out. I heard Belzig call out, "Farewell, comrade!" and the grim voices of the Rovagug shamans completing their spell, but I was already hurrying down the steps, the glow following me and my wayfinder pointing east once more.

The steps went on and on. I felt—and most assuredly was—hundreds of miles from anything safe, or familiar. My stomach rose as I descended: the air here was horrible, a suffocatingly close, sweaty smell of mold, dank water, and years. Condensation sweated from the dwarven runes carved into the stone walls, slick with fungus and dotted here and there with unfamiliar little clawed footprints. On the surface, the noises and quakes of the city settling were faint and occasional, but in the dungeons it was a near-continuous groan and rumble, sometimes terrifyingly amplified by chambers out of sight, punctuated by squeaks and scrapes like someone shaking rusty chainmail.

Then, abruptly, I was out of stairs. The passage below my feet was blocked by a rough stretch of gray-brown mortar, much newer than what it sealed and covered in dust and rubble.

A dwarven defensive move? An attempt by the orcs to prevent the ascendance of further subterranean denizens? Only the gods know, I suppose. With a wave of my hand, I called my globe of light forward and slid it over the surface. Near the ceiling, a tunnel two and a half feet wide opened out. The detritus on the floor had undoubtedly been deposited there when the tunnel above was excavated—though by what, I tried not to guess.

I looked back the way I came. Stairs up into darkness. I tested the walls—plenty of space to get a hold between the blocks of stone. I looked up once more. My globe of light cast a glow deep into the tunnel's arc. Fortunately, I'm no stranger to tight squeezes.

It takes an awfully proud Pathfinder not to talk to himself at certain lonely stretches of his journeys. "Eando," I said softly to myself, dragging ahead on my elbows, doing my best to arch my body over the droppings scattered across the tunnel floor, my light always a few feet ahead of me, my back half feeling horribly exposed. "Eando," I said, "when you find what this wayfinder is leading you to, you'll take a little break. Perhaps your next adventure will be someplace warm. Warm and flat. Warm and flat and sunny."

After minutes—or hours?—I tried another deal. "Eando, if this tunnel doesn't end in five hundred breaths, you'll turn around and shuffle backward and—"

And then I was tumbling headfirst through the air, my globe of light spilling after me, skidding down a long earthen wall. Foul air whistled by me and I reached for purchase, any purchase, my heart thudding in my mouth, beginning the words of the same levitation spell that had saved me and Joskan at the dragon mountain.

I didn't finish them. My plunge through the air stopped abruptly—I bounced hard on nothing, struck the wall, then swung, head down, as if at the limit of a rope. My globe of light shot ahead, and I saw for a moment forty feet beneath me a long winding platform carved out of living rock, facing into the measureless vault's hungry black.

Then I turned around, twisting in the air, to see what had caught me.

Thrust out from a crack in the wall, an orange, insectile monster as big as a man was gently sniffing the toes of my boots. Its ropy, red-furred antennae and front legs wound tight around my ankles, its hind limbs and strange, fan-shaped tail braced in the crack of the wall from which it had lunged. Wet eyes looked me over; foul fly-like mandibles worked the air.

To catch me, the beast must have been incredibly fast—must, indeed, have smelled me approaching this vault through the tunnel many paces before I tumbled in.

My stomach muscles began to cramp in their half-curl as the monster's coiling prehensile antennae unfurled and brushed the steel-reinforced toes of my boots, and suddenly I recognized the beast from a dozen fireside tales. The metal hissed and sputtered and dropped flakes of burnt rust. Its mouth closed over my toes. I knew I only had a second before the creature would begin to sniff along the rest of my body and smell my sword. As carefully and smoothly as I could, I drew my metal city token from around my throat, lifted it over my head and—just as the scorching secretion of the monster's antennae ate through the steel of my boot-toes—tossed the token down my body, up into the air, and directly in front of the monster's face.

With a snuffle, front legs still fast around my ankles, it lunged its head forward, the armor plating down its back shifting, exposing the bare length of its neck just for a moment. It was all I needed. With a flash, I drew my sword and, just as its proboscises caught my token in mid-air, cut its head cleanly off. Its grip went slack, and I fell.

What kind of Pathfinder plays lapdog to an orc?

Plummeting through the dark, I shouted my levitation spell and was arrested in my plunge once again as the corpse tumbled past. Below, the rust monster's corpse missed the platform and spun off into the dark; its head struck the stone beneath and rolled into a corner. Swimming through the air slightly, I guided myself to the wide ledge. As my feet touched the solidity of the living stone, I shut my eyes.

It took me a minute to get my pounding heart under control. When I stood, pulling myself up on the fence of short stone columns along the platform's edge, my toes scraped the bare ground where the monster had eaten through my boots' steel and gnawed the leather.

Where was I? Clearly, over an immense chasm. Who knew how far down it went, or what waited at the bottom? Golarion has many secret places, a few of which I'm unashamed to leave unexplored.

I looked up. I knew I was still on Urgir's side of this chasm, but as far as I could see above me rose walls of damp earth and stone. Down the length of the platform squatted hulking dwarf monuments, much abused by time. Every scrap of decorative metal fixed in the statuary on this side of the rift had been eaten clean out, and in places the features of the statues were corroded and scraped away as if by a serrated knife. Arching above me, huge columns and buttresses of masonry that looked to have once been steel-reinforced cracked and strained, and in a few places great steel supports hung like stalactites, rusted completely away at head height, no doubt by a rust monster who didn't bother thinking ahead. Suddenly everything clicked into place—the tremors, the sealing of the tunnels—and I wondered how much longer Urgir had before its final supports were consumed and the great city sank into the earth. The dead eyes in the head of the rust monster I'd slain glowed with a mischievous light.

A faint repetitive chittering filled the air above me, then, far off, a long rumble that shook the stones. Another joist, somewhere, sagging at its base. I suddenly wondered how close the closest rust monster was, and whether they all smelled the sword I thought momentarily of drawing. I thought of the scraped-out faces and decorations of the statues, and concluded that it might be the last bit of scavenge-worthy metal anywhere close by.

I was only half-right. Opposite me, perhaps eighty feet across the measureless depth of the chasm and shining in the glow of my light, there was another long platform of worked stone. On and around this one, however, the dwarf statues were untouched. Gold belts, oversized steel weapons, and ornate ceremonial armor were still set in the living rock and reflecting the feeble glow of my light. And in the center, directly across from me, stood two massive metal doors.

Of course. It must have been an easy thing for a rust monster to burrow through loose mortar and earth that formed the walls of this chasm and the sections above, but digging out dwarven stonework or crawling headfirst down the sheer walls must be another matter.

I hope I never know what it's like to be that hungry, that close to a meal you can never touch.

Feeling that the doors' position across from me was too convenient, I studied the wall behind me and my suspicions were immediately rewarded. Next to the hole I'd emerged from, the stone of the wall changed shape, becoming one long, narrow slab that stretched into the darkness above, flanked by two similarly thick and boxy pillars. Across its surface, in dwarven runes several inches high that glowed faintly, a verse was scrawled. Though the stout folks' tongue has never been my strongest, I set to work immediately, and after a grueling hour sat back and read the poem aloud.

The way is barred, the way is barred,

But dwarven folk have traveled hard,

And ask assistance, door, of you,

That you might let these travelers through.

The stones heard. With a deep rumble and a squeal of protest, the long slab shuddered and began to descend out from the wall, an entire chunk of the ledge rotating to become a curved support structure for the emerging drawbridge. As I scrambled out of the way, I noted that the thick chains guiding the bridge were fed out from a previously concealed opening in the boxy pillars. Even if the rust monsters had smelled them, they must not have been able to break through their monolithic stone housings. The great drawbridge drew down slowly, parting the dark of the chasm like the hand of a clock, then settled with a heavy boom on the far side before the great steel doors.

I have to admit, I almost skipped across.

The ancient double doors loomed over me, twenty feet high and fifteen wide. In the flicker of my light, I saw magnificent figures decorating the ornate steel: mighty-limbed dwarven warriors doing battle with orcs while dwarven laborers erected towering halls and keeps in vast caverns. Strange locking mechanisms stood to either side of the vault doors, and at the doors' center, a clockwork mechanism of tiny gears encased in some sort of clear crystal barred the portal from opening.

I checked the wayfinder once more. Sure enough, it pointed straight through the doors.

I looked again at the mechanism, which I now saw was covered with concentric rings of tiny runes. I sighed and prepared myself for another long translation session. Then, on a whim, I recited the poem from the drawbridge.

Nothing happened at first. Then one tiny gear spun in a tight circle inside the mechanism, faster and faster. Another followed it, and another. Hairline cracks ran across the case, and, with a crunch, the whole mechanism collapsed on itself. To either side, the massive bolts still held the portal firm.

Oops.

I admit, I probably shouldn't have been so hasty: it's only common sense that the key to one passage might bar another. But, common sense or not, it meant I was out of ideas.

Or was I? As if on cue, the whole cavern rumbled again. And suddenly, I knew who could help me.

The source of Urgir's strange tremors.

I always say, until you're hanging upside down over an infinite chasm thanks to the good graces of a savage orc lord, being stalked by monsters who want to eat your only weapon, you're not really having an adventure.

Dangling by a rope harness around my waist, I was lucky that the drawbridge chain gave a scream of tearing metal before giving way completely, allowing me time to jerk my battered metal file back from the long cut I'd made. As I kicked off and swung out of the way, the last link of the mighty chain snapped. The linked iron plunged through the dark, limp as a dead serpent, whizzing down the rope I'd already threaded through it until, with an ear-splitting clatter, it came to rest on the platform below. The second chain still fixed on the bridge groaned once like a wounded aurochs but held.

I waited just a second, then rappelled down the wall, touching down softly on the balcony-turned-bridge, and I recovered my rope. With a massive effort, I hauled at the chain until it stretched straight down the bridge's length, a trail leading from the base near where I'd entered to the doors, reflecting all the while that this—more than treasure, more even than glory—was why I'd rather be a Pathfinder than a merchant. A merchant pays his bills and stocks his shelves. A Pathfinder crosses chasms and wrangles monsters, and does it with no one but maybe Desna looking out for him. Any day you outsmart a rival, you honor yourself. Any day you outsmart nature, you honor your profession. The chain in place, I scampered back across the bridge, used rope and pitons to haul myself up to a perch above the doors, and settled in to watch.

"Suppertime!" I hollered out into the dark. "Come and get it."

I didn't wait long. It may have taken the rust monsters a century to figure out that they couldn't cross the chasm, but it took perhaps five minutes for one creature to smell metal on the balcony and creep out to see what it could find. Delicately, almost reverently, the creature brushed the farthest link with its feathered antennae, trembling with excitement. Then it pounced, and with the scuttling of tiny feet raced forward, following the ferrous buffet toward me and the doors at top speed. I worried momentarily if I were in danger.

I needn't have worried. For the creature, it was as if I had never existed. In my frail light, the vault doors with their snapped mechanism glowed, as friendly as a campfire. Gibbering, the thing sprang, tenacious claws digging into the frame, feathered antennae working in a blur as it cavorted and gobbled. Below me, the dwarven metalwork gave way as the grand graven images of warriors and monsters sighed and bubbled. The carved runes blurred into illegibility, the rust spread, and then, with a clang, the doors collapsed open, kicking up white dust and pitching the creature, in its throes of appetite, forward face-first into its meal.

As lightly as I could, I dropped down behind it, sword drawn. "Thank you very much, friend," I said politely, then chopped its head off. Call me unsentimental, but I think rust monsters have played their part in this journey.

Beyond the doors' corroded frame, the stygian mouth of the tunnel yawned open. This just keeps getting better, I thought. Waving my light a few feet ahead of me, I took my first step into the Darklands.

Darkest Before the Fall

By Amber Scott

26 Lamashan, 4707 ar

I dug the fingers of my left hand more firmly into the gritty rock and inched my right hand up over the lip of the chasm. Rocks sliced into my knees where I pressed them against the cliff face, as if by sheer force I could stick myself to the wall. Sweat ran down my back in sticky streams, cooled instantly by the chill underground air. My eyes strained to make out shapes in the blackness—I cursed the ill fortune that allowed my lantern to slip from my now-aching fingers—as I quested for a handhold in the dark. With luck, with skill, and with strength I could get enough of a grip on something to pull myself up. If the ground or my arms didn't give way first.

In the pitch blackness before me, I heard the faintest of sounds. A brief but audible shuffle, perhaps a footstep.

"Is someone there?" I called. My own voice bounced back at me, small and thin in the yawning silence of the Darklands. No other reply came. I didn't think it possible my position could grow more precarious, but the thought of an unknown predator out there added a layer of uncertainty.

"Hello!" I called, risking the appearance of an enemy for the hope of salvation. "Is anyone there?"

As I waited, agonized, for an answer, I continued to grope for a means to pull myself up. The entire time, I reflected that on the surface roads exist where you make them, and at any time you can leave the trail and blaze your own across undiscovered country.

But underground, every passage is a potential dead end.

My journey hadn't started off badly. Once past the ancient seal and into the Darklands proper, I had found myself enchanted by the place.

I admit I'd anticipated long stretches of featureless stone tunnel, the monotony broken now and then by a stalactite, or perhaps some unusual fungi. Once I descended the flight of stone steps, obviously hewn by dwarven hammers, I found myself in a spacious, well-made tunnel stretching into blackness. Pictograms covered the walls, most depicting dwarven warriors in ornate armor battling against bizarre creatures: something like a cross between an ogre and a beetle, ambulatory mushrooms, and worms that appeared roughly the size of a two-story inn. I took my time examining the pictures as I proceeded down the tunnel—while crude, they held an arresting sort of power in their simplicity and action.

The tunnel stretched on for at least three hundred feet before it ended in a simple archway. Beyond that, a much narrower, rougher tunnel sloped sharply down. I concluded I was entering Nar-Voth, the uppermost layer of the Darklands.

Calling it a natural stone tunnel doesn't give an accurate picture. Certainly the walls were rough and the floor uneven, the stone pressed close and the air stale. The stone wasn't featureless gray, but a rippled mosaic of shades from slick black to almost bone-white, encompassing every dimension of gray and brown within, marked with veins of jade-green, rosy red, even at one point a deep sky blue. These ripples of stone ran along the wall for a few feet, or a few dozen feet, or sometimes for up to a mile. The stone didn't merely crest the wall like a wave, but occasionally broke loose and stretched to the floor or ceiling, or wove across the tunnel like a lattice, so that I was constantly climbing over or ducking under fantastic stone formations.

There was mold, often growing thick as tapestries and long as a woman's hair on the wall and floor. In one place, mold hung from ceiling to floor like a curtain, and I had to push my way though the sea-green strands, so thick it was like being underwater. Tiny leaf-green beetles, smaller than roaches, scuttled away at my passing.

The tunnel widened to cavernous proportions from time to time, and numerous smaller tunnels branched off the one I walked. I tried to choose the widest and clearest-looking turn each time I faced a choice, while still keeping with the wayfinder's heading, and did my best to record the path in my journal. I even went so far as to scratch tiny marks into the stone of the walls, though I dared not make them too obvious, lest something down here pass through and decide to investigate. Indeed, I feared something might already be doing so; whenever I paused, it seemed to me that something was watching me from just beyond my circle of lamplight, patiently waiting for me to begin moving again. I longed for dawn, then shook myself with the realization that it would never come.

The level of the tunnel rose and fell as I walked, and several times I retraced my steps to veer around an impassable gorge. I was beginning to think of campsites and how best to rest in this underground maze when the walls trembled.

I stopped dead, my hand outstretched and grazing the tunnel wall. The tremor ceased as abruptly as it had begun. Visions of cave-ins filled my head. Not the most glorious of deaths, I thought. Pinned under a thousand tons of rock miles below the surface, with no one the wiser. Still, this would make one hell of a tomb.

Regardless, I wasn't ready to lie down in my grave just yet. I inched forward cautiously, waiting to see if the tremor returned. It did, moments later, louder and even stronger. The tunnel was a wide one, almost a chamber, and the tremors seemed strongest along the wall I touched. I let go of its grimy surface and moved silently across the wide expanse to the far side.

Then the ground heaved and bucked like a living thing. I fell to one knee and my lantern skittered away in the dark. The floor opened beneath it, swallowing my little light. A keening roar echoed through the room, a screech like that of a predator but with a wet, phelgmatic quality to it. I struggled to my feet to sprint to safety, but it was too late. A chasm opened up beneath my boots and it was all I could do to catch the ledge.

The tremors faded to a low and constant tremble in the ground, and there I hung, dangling over a blackness so deep it hurt to look at, wishing for a light, a rope, a friendly face, or at the very least, that I hadn't exhausted my magical ability lighting my way.

My arms ached with the strain of bearing my weight, and it felt like red-hot pins were sliding into my shoulders. My groping right hand found a divot just deep enough to get a grip. "Cayden, or Desna," I whispered, "or anyone who might be listening, really—please let this hold my weight." I dug my fingers into the stone and heaved.

My arm held out just long enough to scrabble my boots against the stone and fling my left hand over the ledge. With both hands clutching to the rock I managed to squirm my way up onto solid ground and lie there, gasping and choking in the fine dust that now filled the cavern. In the spaces between breaths, I heard something move just beyond the reach of my vision.

"Thanks," I coughed, then lifted myself on one elbow and scanned the darkness. I could make out nothing. "Is someone there?" I tried again.

No one answered, and I heard no further footsteps. "Hmph," I muttered, wishing I had the innocence left to chalk up what I'd heard to imagination.

I fumbled in my pack for a torch and relaxed once its friendly light burst forth. I stood and made a quick circuit of this side of the chamber—now split by an eight-foot-wide gorge—but saw no trace of anyone lurking in the dark, or whatever had made that tremor and roar. I shrugged and returned to the chasm.

I could have retraced my steps and gone around, but I was convinced something lay in the darkness that way. Besides, the wayfinder still pointed in the other direction. I lit the stubbiest of my candles and placed it at the near edge of the pit, then tossed my torch to the other side. It hit the ground, rolled and sputtered terribly, but stayed lit.

Then, out of curiosity, I tore off a bit of wrapping from a second torch and lit it, edging up to the lip of the gorge. Peering over into the blackness, I dropped the flaming fabric.

It fluttered as it fell, a winking star in the black, and for a moment I feared the distance was too great and it would flicker out in the fall. But the flame held, and after twenty or thirty feet it hit ground. I strained my eyes for anything of interest, but saw only the ridged stone.

Then I realized the flame was moving. It slid slowly to the left, and my whole body went cold as I realized the "ground" was the back of a huge, wrinkled beast. Its purplish-gray skin looked to be made of chitinous armor plating in the tiny circle of light, and I hoped desperately the beast wouldn't notice the burning on its back and look for the source. The monster filled the entire chasm—a river of hardened flesh undulating away from me—but I realized that the creature was actually a massive, wriggling worm.

I held my breath, watching its tremendous bulk writhe on and on until the candle snuffed itself out where the worm slid its bulk into a tight tunnel. Now that I was listening for it, I could hear the rasping of its body forcing its way through the rocky channel. With a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach, I backed up, then dashed forward and hurled myself across the chasm. I skidded a little on the far side, teetered and windmilled my arms for balance, then scooped up the torch at my feet and hurried as fast as I dared away from the chamber and its disturbing occupant.

28 Lamashan, 4707 ar

By the time I'd found a place to camp, caught some restless slumber, shaken the grit out of my cloak, and followed the winding tunnels down for another few hours, I'd grown heartily sick of traveling underground.

My fatigue did not keep me from enjoying the sights, however; the territory I passed through was awe-inspiring and beautiful, in an alien sort of way. But the endless blackness, with no shred of sunlight to lift the gloom, the stale air, the constant crunch of grit beneath my boots, the ever-present chill radiating from the stone walls—all these things wore on me. It takes a special type of person to make his home underground, and I am evidently not one of them.

The tunnels grew steeper and narrower the farther I progressed, and I seemed to be walking on a down slope more often than not. I passed through a magnificent chamber with a ceiling so high it was lost in the blackness; a stream of icy-cold water cascaded down one wall and formed a churning pool in the center of the room. I waded gingerly through the pool, staring in fascination at the oily black fish with pure white eyes that swam lazily in the water.

I also traveled through a network of tunnels that crisscrossed like a web. Phosphorescent fungus completely covered the walls; the bulbous growths lit up in unnatural shades of blue, pink, purple, and green in the light of my sunrod. (A good Pathfinder carries multiple light sources. I had three more sunrods, a couple of torches, and a handful of candles tucked into the side-pouches of my backpack, in case of emergency.) When several tunnels intersected they often formed a pocket chamber, some of which contained fungal "trees" ten or twelve feet tall. My fascination ebbed slightly when I found a malformed little skeleton half-buried in one of the trees. Its fungus-covered skull looked up at me with blank sockets, and I shivered and hurried on.

It's hard to gauge the passage of time underground, but I estimate it was around noon when I came to a side-tunnel so steeply sloped it looked more like a chimney. Sharp ridges covered the tunnel's sides, like the ripples of waves. The tunnel was narrow, but almost perfectly square, and the ridges were just the right size to form a ladder, albeit for someone slightly smaller than me. The straightness and angle of the tunnel was too perfect to be natural; someone had carved this tunnel-ladder here, which meant that something interesting probably sat at the bottom.

I leaned into the entrance and looked down as far as I could. The tunnel sloped even more sharply a few feet in, becoming a true chimney, but I saw the ridges offered numerous hand- and foot-holds.

As I peered into the black, an echo drifted up the shaft. A series of whispers in a language I didn't understand, and a moment later, an answering whisper from another voice.

Someone was down there.

At first the chimney's walls had seemed wide enough apart to allow some freedom of movement, but close enough together that I could brace my back against the wall while I descended. After a few dozen feet, though, they narrowed to the point where I had trouble stepping down—there wasn't enough room to properly bend my knee. The walls pressed in close around me and my breathing seemed loud in the narrow channel. The ridges offered secure hand-holds, but the rock abraded my skin and occasionally cut my fingers. The farther down I climbed, the narrower the chimney grew, and I began to wonder if I'd stick at some point or be forced to climb back up. So tight were the walls that I couldn't look down past my shoulders. I rested on my toes for a moment to give my arms a break, but the ridges weren't quite wide enough for me to stand on comfortably. That's when I heard the whispers again.

They came quickly, incomprehensible as before and echoing weirdly in the passage. It was as if a hundred strangers each tried to whisper a secret to me all at once. I looked around pointlessly and the whispers died.

"Hello?" I whispered. I felt a bit silly, but I'd heard enough stories of ghosts and phantasms not to discount the possibility of parlay. "Hello, is someone there?"

I remembered the sensation I'd had last time I was hanging from my fingertips and felt as if someone was watching me. Then I'd been certain there was a figure in the darkness, and no one had been there. But I knew I wasn't imagining this sound.

"Hello?" I tried again.

An explosion of light surrounded me. I cried out instinctively and shut my eyes. The whispers returned full force and a sudden breeze blew past my face. Still clinging to the wall, I cracked open my eyes.

A cloud of luminescent moths engulfed me. Each one was as large as my hand and glowed pale silver, gold, and rose. Their antennae stretched twice the length of their bodies and brushed me like a woman's hair as they swarmed around. I gasped with relief, then shuddered as the cloud continued to bat around me like drunken bumblebees. The moths seemed harmless, and I wasn't afraid of falling this time (the other day's encounter having been enough to convince me to save some of my magical reserves) but the sensation of the swarm was unsettling.

The moths remained for possibly a minute, their glow overwhelming that of my sunrod, the beat of their wings filling the passage with the susurrus I'd mistaken for whispers. Just when I was wondering if I should start to climb with the moths in tow, they continued their swarm up the chimney and vanished from sight.

"Well," I said in the silence. My sunrod seemed pale and somewhat lifeless in comparison to the moths' glow. "That was interesting. Wonder what woke them up?"

Even as I spoke the words, I remembered my hasty and somewhat irreverent prayer of the day before. Desna's symbol is the butterfly, and these silvery moths were unlike anything I'd seen before: exotic and beautiful. And I'd been hanging from my fingertips again when they'd swarmed past.

Interesting.

I continued down, wedging myself through the narrowest part of the chimney and leaving a bit of skin behind, and soon reached the tunnel to which the chimney connected. Handholds led down the wall below and I dropped the last few feet into the tunnel proper. It stood about six feet high, just enough room for me to unfold and hold my sunrod up.

This tunnel was definitely constructed, though a few side-branches seemed natural. Carvings covered the walls. They seemed similar to the ones I'd seen at the entrance to the Darklands, but so old and worn I could make out no details. I stood in the middle of the tunnel with no clear indication as to which way was "forward," so I consulted the wayfinder and marched onward.

I'd traveled for only a few hundred feet when the tunnel expanded to double its width. Another thirty, and it opened up onto a platform overlooking an ancient underground city. Domes and pillars reached like stalagmites toward the ceiling; crumbling buildings spanned the length of the cavern, close-packed palaces shunning the light from patches of glowing mold in favor of the shadows.

The Darklands are just as dangerous for its residents.

The first thing I did was gape. The second thing I did was sit down on the platform, so that I could gape properly while resting my legs.

I'm not exaggerating when I say the city was immense. In many ways it reminded me of Urgir. Though the buildings here looked considerably older, and many had actually fallen into rubble, the existing structures displayed architecture similar to Urgir's. Squat stone pillars held up heavy roofs, stone blocks as wide as my outstretched arms formed thick walls, and the streets looked grooved, bowed under the ponderous weight of marching feet. The city seemed built to withstand time and stress, and even the collapsed buildings looked solid. I got the impression they'd been knocked down, not succumbed to age.

Small figures moved among the stalactites that hung like dragon's teeth over the city; I thought they were bats, but larger than any I'd seen before. In the streets of the city I caught glimpses of movement. I tried to focus on whatever walked this ancient ruin, but the shadowy forms always slipped out of sight before I could make out details. The hairs on the back of my neck rose as the stories of ghosts and phantasms I'd recalled in the chimney came back in full force. If the dwarven dead walked anywhere, this city seemed like the perfect place.

A flash of light caught my eye. Far to my right, flames caught on a pile of something and flared up into a bonfire. The section of the city it illuminated seemed in better repair than the rest, and I saw stone blocks arranged in a crude barricade around the area. Around the fire's base I glimpsed a few stocky figures before they retreated into the darkness—dwarves, perhaps?

The scrape of a boot on stone sounded behind me. I froze, then slowly turned my head to look over my shoulder.

Two figures, both four feet tall and all muscle, stood behind me. Each one clutched a barbed spearhead mounted on a short wooden haft. Dull gray armor made their stocky forms appear even squatter, and their battered helmets glinted dully. Their eyes burned coal-red, and their skin was gray as forge smoke. I speak a little Dwarf, but I didn't have to say a word to know this pair wasn't friendly. I tried raising my empty hands and smiling, just in case.

They lunged for me, spears first, and I shouted an arcane phrase I'd been saving for just such an occasion. Flames burst from my outspread fingertips. (An empty hand doesn't always mean harmless.)

The gray dwarves bellowed and fell back a step, shielding their eyes and beating the flames out of their beards. I used the distraction to roll backward off the lip of the observation platform.

It wasn't a long drop to the ground, and I didn't use my falling spell for the simple reason that I didn't want to slow down. I got my feet under me and hit the stone hard enough to jar my teeth. The gray dwarves shouted above me and rushed to the opposite side of the platform. They began to scramble down with such agility that there must have been hidden handholds; nevertheless, my descent had been quicker than theirs. I used my head start to run. Not that I was necessarily afraid of the two burly, heavily armed dwarves in their native terrain, you understand. But I've been known to show remarkable common sense from time to time.

Unfortunately, running in someone else's native terrain while searching for a hiding place isn't much easier than fighting off two territorial gray dwarves—though it carries less risk of missing limbs. I barreled along as quickly as I could, searching desperately for a crevice or nook in which to conceal myself. A narrow tunnel opened up along the wall to my right and I dove in, hoping to squeeze through a passage too narrow for the armored dwarves to follow.

I found the next best thing: branching tunnels leading off in random directions. Praying with newfound piety not to hit a dead end, I veered right, then left. The tunnel narrowed and widened again, curved like a fishhook, and stopped.

I guess you can't have everything you pray for.

The end of the tunnel was a bulbous cave filled with piles of loose rubble and boulders. I turned, ready to thread my way back and try a different passage, when I heard the clatter of armor and the muttering of guttural voices. The gray dwarves had followed me, and I was afraid any movement would alert them to my presence.

I crouched behind the densest pile of rocks and stuffed the sunrod down my shirtfront, trying to breathe quietly. My lungs and legs ached from the tumble down the cliff followed by my mad dash, and I struggled not to shift and stretch too much. I strained my ears, hoping with each passing second that the sounds of pursuit would fade away.

No such luck. The clattering of armor grew louder. My heart hammered in my chest and I wiped sweat from my brow. If I had to fight, this seemed like the best place in which to make a stand, but I didn't like the odds. I'd bet gold to a Varisian that the gray dwarves could see in the dark. Making a stand might work, but I'd be happier if it didn't come to that. Besides, I had one trick left up my proverbial sleeve.

It wasn't much of a trick, to be honest—one of the first and easiest spells I ever learned. As I'd grown better at casting, the spell had grown more powerful too. At first I'd only been able to conjure the sound of a few people whispering. Now I hoped I could mimic the sounds of that ridiculously large worm I'd seen the day before.

The farther away the gray dwarves were, the better I suspected this would work. I straightened up, put my shoulder against the boulder pile, and heaved.

The topmost boulder rocked, teetered, and then crashed to the ground with an accompanying shower of gravel. I cast my spell and mimicked, as best I could from memory, the horrible keening roar of the purple worm.

As the echoes of my illusionary cry faded away, the clashing of armor stopped. I thought I heard the whisper of cautious voices ahead. I shoved the rock pile once more and another hail of stones rained down, shaking the ground as they bounced and cracked. I mimicked the worm's roar again, realistically enough to give myself shivers. I tramped around the room, shoving over rock piles and roaring like a madman. I only had a minute or so in which to make this work. Caught up in the frenzy, I could hardly listen to see if the dwarves were really backing off. Plus the chamber was full of the sound of purple worm and falling rocks.

All too quickly, the spell ended. I halted my destructive rampage, panting heavily, my arms aching and palms gritty from the effort. I cocked my head and listened.

Far in the distance, I heard the sound of armored figures quickly retreating. Silently, I celebrated.

Then the ground shook under my feet.

This is what happens when I try to be clever.

I spent a second frozen in shock. I wasted another breathing hard, and a third squeezing my eyes shut, before my body caught up with my brain and my legs started pumping. I bolted from the chamber at top speed, just before the ceiling caved in and the enormous bulk of the purple worm surged into the room.

I like to think my roaring dance of falling boulders was some unwitting form of purple worm poetry, and not simply a mating call or—more likely—a territorial breach that summoned the worm to see what was slithering through its home. Regardless, the worm reared its blind head, waving its torso back and forth as if scenting the air. Its maw opened, displaying slime-coated fangs that glistened in the light of the sunrod I desperately dug out of my shirt.

I risked one glance over my shoulder, then put my head down and ran like hell.

Their short legs and heavy armor hampered the gray dwarves' speed, and I passed them just as we exited into the main cavern. They lit out for the bonfire I'd seen earlier; I hightailed it in the opposite direction. The city didn't seem like a viable option—recalling those strange black shapes lurking in the shadows—so I sprinted around its perimeter until I found another tunnel in which to duck.

The sounds of keening roars, falling rocks, and, after a minute or so, dwarven screams followed me as I ran. Apparently the worm had chosen to follow the slower pair. "Excellent choice," I muttered under my breath.

Once I was certain the worm was busy feasting on the dwarves and not following me, I collapsed against the wall of the tunnel and struggled to catch my breath. I held the sunrod before me, taking comfort from its light, but even as I watched, its glow began to fade. I sat quietly, thankful for the respite—thankful to still be alive in this wondrous, dangerous place—and watched as the sunrod's light lessened bit by bit until I sat alone in darkness.

...And Your Enemies Closer

By Greg A. Vaughan

04 Neth, 4707 ar

Progress at last… of a sort. Ever since leaving the gray dwarves and the ruined city, the path I followed continued to descend, usually at a mild grade but sometimes involving scrambling over water-contoured terraces and down the faces of old rockfalls. The whole time my wayfinder pointed me ever onward down the path I was following. Whatever it is that I seek, it lies deep. I have surely descended into the upper reaches of Sekamina by now—the Darklands' middle layer—and I have begun to see signs of intelligent design in the tunnels. No longer do the ways seem to follow old watercourses or dry fault lines. Instead, I am now finding traces of workmanship—the marks of tools on the stone and a general smoothing of the floor to accommodate two-footed travel rather than just the slinking of multi-legged predators or the oozing crawl of even worse.

Today my footsteps brought me into a dry, barren cavern with no other exits. In the center of the cavern stood a small, stepped pyramid, no more than the height of two men and perhaps as wide as four at its base. Ancient glyphs in flowing serpentine motifs adorned its outer face in no language that I could recognize, and the center of one face was pierced by a deep-set stone door.

Before approaching the door (where the wayfinder, of course, indicated that I should go), I walked the circumference of the pyramid to see if any visible tricks or traps awaited me within or without. I even lit one of my precious sunrods to gain a better view of the ceiling to ensure none of the strange stalactite creatures that had plagued my steps in previous days waited to drop on me from above.

All appeared safe, though my searches did reveal some of the local fauna at the base of the pyramid's rear side. They were a half-dozen small, worm-like creatures, perhaps a type of cephalopod, no longer than my forearm with tiny leg buds along their bodies and four stunted tentacles around their mouths. I have seen them before in these dismal caves and have begun calling them slime crawlers for the opalescent trails they tend to leave behind when scuttling along the floor or other surfaces. I suspect them to be a larval form of some larger creature that I have fortunately not yet encountered.

Whatever they are, their tiny, sucker-like mouths seemed to be particularly well adapted to scouring any organic materials—including their own slime trails and sometimes each other—directly from the stone surfaces of cavern floors, walls, and roofs. A few days back, I watched a group of them efficiently break down and consume a dead lizard many times their size in little more than an hour, leaving nothing behind but a damp spot on a smooth-polished stone floor.

These particular slime worms were busily tearing into some sort of a spider the size of a large dog with strange, whip-like tendrils. It was difficult to tell its exact structure, as the creatures were already well along in their ministrations. Whether they had brought it down themselves or just happened upon its corpse, I could not say.

I scouted the exterior of the pyramid one more time to ensure that there were no more of the spider creatures about or larger slime trails that might indicate the worm larvae were not alone. Finding nothing, I turned my attention to the pyramid door. It was inset several feet into the pyramid face and made of plain stone, and very unlike the decorative nature of the pyramid's outer surface. It had a simple sliding lock catch with a large handle that could be easily manipulated by any creature with a prehensile limb but was sufficient to keep out less-intelligent predators and vermin such as the slime crawlers.

When I was satisfied that the door was safe, I gripped the handle with one hand and clutched my sword and the sunrod together in the other. As the door grated slowly open, I tossed the sunrod into the room for light and to free up my sword hand for a fight if necessary. I was disappointed that there was no puff of stale air or dust as the door opened—so the pyramid had not been so well sealed after all. My sunrod had clattered against bare stone by the sound of it, and when I had the door fully open, I saw that it more than illuminated the small room within.

The chamber was built as a four-way, corbelled arch, each stone set upon and slightly overlapping the stone beneath but held in place by the weight of the stone above, so that the walls met in an apex not far above my head and held the same general shape as the outside of the pyramid. In the center of the ceiling's peak was an opening into the cavern outside—so much for my careful perusal.

A stone slab on a man-sized pedestal dominated the center of the chamber. The borders of the slab were incised with the same serpentine motif as the outside of the pyramid. Lying atop this slab was a humanoid skeleton wearing a tarnished copper breastplate and grasping a short, wide-bladed chopping sword on its breast in skeletal fingers. A thin veneer of dust and cobwebs covered the ancient cadaver and, though it gave no sign of animation, I watched it carefully as I took in my surroundings. It bothered me that none of the little slime worms had dropped in through the ceiling opening and consumed the remains after all these years.

My suspicions proved to be well founded as I approached the pedestal, to which my wayfinder faithfully pointed, and saw the skeletal form suddenly lurch. My blade shot out almost of its own accord and removed the skull from its position atop the spinal column in one quick swipe. My elation was short-lived, however, as the skeleton clattered harmlessly to the floor at my feet, pushed from its perch by the creature crawling up from behind the pedestal.

My first impression was of lashing whips, as two searching tendril-like strands caromed off of the bare stone surface, but these were followed quickly by two large pincers on segmented arms. Soon, perched before me was another one of those dog-sized arachnids, this one alive and well. Behind the pincers and whips it had three more pairs of legs, and finally another whip-like appendage as a tail that undulated and wavered constantly as if testing the air.

I leaped back a pace to avoid its snapping claws and dug into my pouch for something of use against this creature. I didn't relish the thought of moving within reach of those whips to battle it with my short blade. Somewhere in my pouch was a bag of exploding alchemical goo that would enable me to pin the thing down and make for a swifter kill. My free hand closed on a small ceramic flask—not what I was looking for. I didn't have time to look further, however, as the creature suddenly jerked its thorax upward and sprayed a fine mist directly into my face. The caustic stench of vinegar filled the air, and I was immediately blinded and unable to breathe.

I tumbled to the floor in a panic, clawing at my sightless eyes and trying to draw breath through my swollen throat. In my flailing, I hurled the ceramic flask and heard it smash against stone. Half a second before I felt the burning, I realized what it was—another item purchased in Urgir. I had just smashed a flask of alchemical fire in the small burial vault with me in its midst.

Fortunately, the explosion seemed to clear some of the caustic fumes from the air, and my breathing became easier almost immediately. In addition, by the sound of it I had scored a direct hit on the monster, as I could hear a frantic clicking and scuffling that soon slowed and stopped. With my cloak and evidently part of my hair on fire, I rolled frantically out of the pyramid and into the cavern, freeing my waterskin and dousing myself as quickly as possible while beating at the flames with my bare hands. Finally, the last of my clothing was extinguished, and I lay in an exhausted daze amid the smell of acrid chemicals, acidic mist, age-old dust, and burned hair. That last probably bothered me the most.

I must've passed out for a moment, because I awoke to the feel of something trying to scrape the charred flesh from my scalp. Opening my eyes, I found my vision had cleared enough to realize that one of the larval slime crawlers was sitting on my face making a feast of my scorched flesh. I could feel another making its slimy way up my arm. Somehow, having these ridiculously vile little worms on me was the worst thing of all, and I spent some time rolling frantically and smashing them flat. There may have been screaming involved, but I couldn't say for sure—there was a lot going on at the time.

When all was said and done, I rubbed my hand through my hair, which succeeded only in painfully irritating the scorched stubble. Fortunately, I still had a few minor potions I had brought along just in case, and one of them managed to heal the worst of the burns, leaving only pink, tender flesh. The hair was another matter, and probably made my head look decidedly lopsided. Not that anyone was here to see it. I decided I really didn't care and went about gathering my things and repairing my charred cloak as best I could.

The inside of the pyramid was still thick and smoky, the spider-thing little more than a curled ball of char on the floor. I retrieved my fallen sword and the sunrod and went to examine the beheaded skeleton now lying on the ground. It appeared human enough at first glance, but a closer look revealed some inconsistencies: its head was narrower with elongated eye sockets, its lower jaw was long and able to come unhinged, and its ribs were lighter and finer than any human's—and there were far too many of them for any man or humanoid race I knew of. The creature bore a distinct serpentine look, which made sense in light of the snake motifs on the pyramid and bier.

As I examined the cadaver, a curl of smoke near my head in the still-cloudy confines of the pyramid caught my attention. A current of air was flowing through the smoke, and it wasn't issuing from the doorway or the opening overhead. A sudden thought occurred to me. I pushed on the bier's stone lip as hard as I could, and the stone gave a little with a grating rasp. Bracing myself against the corbelled walls of the chamber, I heaved with all my leverage and the stone top of the pedestal slid free, revealing a stairwell descending from the bier's hollow interior. My wayfinder quickly confirmed that this was the route I sought.

05 Neth, 4707 ar

After a cold camp to rest and gather my wits about me, including taking inventory of what equipment had survived my misadventure, I descended into the hidden stairway. It continued down some ways before finally leveling off into a passage that extended away in what appeared to be a straight shot but after careful examination proved to be long, sinuous curves, like the undulations of a giant serpent.

The tunnel was high-ceilinged and obviously carved by skilled artisans—probably the same who had constructed the pyramid above—and it had no sharp corners or edges. All was rounded into smooth contours. The walls and ceiling bore long serpentine designs that endlessly repeated themselves without beginning or end. Intertwined with them were actual carvings of snakes of all sizes and varieties. The walls were broken in places by alcoves that held ten-foot statues of vaguely anthropomorphic snake creatures, some with humanoid bodies and dozens of snake heads on long necks, others of giant serpents with wings and humanoid faces, and still others of beautiful women whose lovely torsos merged into scaly monstrosities. The supply of these varied monsters seemed endless as the corridor went on and on, and I never saw any two alike.

As I traversed this long, majestic hallway, frantically sketching the statues in my journal, one of my footfalls suddenly sounded different than the rest. I looked down, only to find ripples extending out through the stone floor like water in a still pond. The strange wavelets climbed the walls and seemed to sink into one of the alcoves. Therein stood one of the large statues, this one a creature with a humanoid torso and arms but the coiled tail of a giant snake extending downward from its waist. Where its head should have been were a half-dozen fanged, serpentine heads atop elongated, scaly necks with patterns of snake scales. Grasped in its hands was a great axe of ornately carved stone. With a rumble and a crack, a thin patina of dust fell away and the statue slithered from the alcove. Its heads wove menacingly atop sinuous stone necks, and it raised its great axe to swing.

Luck was with me. As the axe swung down, I leaped aside into a convenient alcove across the hallway that held a statue of a hooded snake with a bearded man's face, coiled and arching forward as if to strike. The golem's stroke narrowly missed me as I found cover behind the other statue, thrusting my journal into my shirt. As it recoiled for another strike I cast a quick cantrip to send a spray of acid sizzling toward the narrow base of the statue behind which I hid.

Upon completing the spell, I jumped up behind the statue and grabbed the edges of its hood with my fingers. This sudden move fooled the golem again, and its great axe crashed into the base of the statue near where I had stood. The blow, combined with the hissing acid, created a crack across the statue's base that I capitalized on by bracing myself against the wall with my feet and pushing outward. The top-heavy statue and damaged base were just enough that, with a groan, the entire construction toppled forward as the golem brought its axe down for another blow.

The falling statue caught the golem's axe in mid-swing, and momentum carried the golem down beneath the statue. Before it could react, I was already up and clutching the very item I had sought in vain the previous day. I flung the small leather bag as the golem lunged and snapped futilely, and it exploded amidst the many necks of the statue, coating them in an impenetrable web of expanding ooze that quickly hardened and immobilized them, sticking the golem fast to the floor, its lower half still partially pinned beneath the fallen statue.

Moving quickly, I scooped up the fallen stone axe that had been dropped when the golem fell. I was barely able to lift it, but its weight was sufficient to shatter one of the serpentine necks. In moments it was over, the last snake head falling free, along with both arms for good measure. Exhausted, I dropped the stone axe and paused; for a moment, I had thought I heard a sound from up the tunnel. I waited, holding my breath, but heard nothing more, and decided that it was perhaps merely a strange echo from the falling stone axe. I hastily gathered my things and continued on my way, once more keeping a watchful eye on my back trail.

I don't normally deface statues, but I enjoyed this one.

The tunnel stretched on, though the décor eventually changed. There were no more alcoves, but new and more varied serpent patterns began to appear on the walls, floor, and ceiling. I finally came to a place where the left wall was embossed to look like the back of a giant serpent's throat, while the floor was decorated like the interior of the lower jaw of a snake's mouth complete with forked tongue, and the ceiling bore the image of the snake's upper jaw. This was not the first such bas-relief I had come upon, and while they had made me distinctly uncomfortable, none had proven to be dangerous. Something was different about this one, though, and made my hackles rise.

I studied the thing for some time before I realized what it was: the stone floor of the tunnel upon the snake's carven tongue was smoother and brighter than the rest of the stone, as if the surface of the stone had been polished away. Slime crawlers had been down here and consumed whatever organic substance that covered the carved tongue, stripping the tiniest layer of the stone beneath in the process—probably some sort of poison or grease. It seemed like a fairly obvious tell for someone looking for a trap, but then again, most creatures of the Darklands didn't seem to use conventional vision and made do without much color variation. A creature traveling along this tunnel using the natural darkvision of the nether realms would have noticed no difference in the coloration of the tunnel floor and walked unheeding to its doom.

I spent some time examining the trap until I had sussed out the basics of its workings. The floor beyond the snake's lower jaw was hinged and designed to drop open when anyone stepped on the tongue. As the floor dropped away, the teeth of the lower jaw rose from the floor and the upper jaw lowered from the ceiling, clamping together to mutilate the victim before dropping him into whatever charnel pit lay beneath. However, for the trap to function, a counterweight set into the roof of the snake's mouth had to rise into a ceiling cavity, allowing the upper jaw to drop. I could make out the shape of the counterweight disguised as part of the image's carved palette and finally decided upon a way to counteract the trap, as the trapped section of tongue was obviously too wide to jump across.

Removing a rope from my pack, I worked a short cantrip that allowed me to grasp the end of the rope with an invisible force and carry it up to the counterweight. Concentrating carefully, I threaded the rope through a small hole drilled in the stone counterweight near its end, probably placed there so the stone could be more easily removed and replaced if repairs became necessary. The rope threaded, I summoned the end back to myself, tied a knot in it, then pulled gently to tighten it up against the counterweight.

The trick now was to pull on the rope as I walked across the snake's tongue and apply just as much downward force on the counterweight as my weight was placing on the floor beneath. This I did, carefully, an action made all the more difficult because I had to shorten the length of the rope as I neared the center and then lengthen it again as I slowly stepped over to the opposite side. Other than a few groans and slight shifts in the stone, along with some white knuckles of my own, I made it safely across. My spell was spent, and I had no way to retrieve my rope, so I left it dangling there, thinking perhaps I would need it for a sudden departure.

I started off down the passage, then on a hunch, stopped short of the first sinuous turn and crouched down, extinguishing my torch. For several long minutes I sat in the cloying darkness, silent, convinced that at last the tunnels were getting to me, making me paranoid. Then, just as I was about to move on and denounce my foolishness, I heard it: the telltale sounds of someone examining the trap. As quietly as possible, I moved
back toward the sounds. Ahead, in the dim light of a covered lantern, I could just make out a humanoid form. Hand on sword hilt, I stepped from the shadows just as the man finished using my rope to pull himself across the trap.

Belzig paused in shock at my sudden appearance, and then an oily smile split his face.

"Why, there you are, Kline," the sycophant simpered. "I was hoping I'd catch up to you. Nice work with these traps, by the way. This one would have gotten me for sure."

"Too bad," I replied.

"Is that any way to greet a comrade in arms?" Belzig's false smile was still plastered across his face. "We're Pathfinders. We've got to stick together."

I snorted. "One of us is, at least."

Belzig's smile slipped a bit, and I could tell the barb had struck home. He must have been nearly as tired as I was. He continued regardless.

"After you left, I grew worried that you might need assistance in these dangerous caverns, and Lord Uldeth graciously granted me leave to come help you."

"I'm sure he did," I replied. "Just as you followed me out of the goodness of your heart." I paused, suddenly weary… how long had it been since I'd last spoken to another human? Weeks? "Go back to your orc master, Belzig," I sighed. "There's nothing for you here."

Belzig dropped the phony smile altogether. "Now see here, Kline. I know you're onto something. You came to Urgir to find your way down here, and I helped you make it past Lord Uldeth. A part of whatever treasure you're after is mine by right, and you're going to cut me in."

He took a step forward, and was met by my outthrust hand, shoving him backward.

"Even if there was a treasure, you'd get none of it," I said. "You think I would bring you along just so you can stick a knife in my back the first chance you get? I don't think so, lapdog. Go on back to playing secretary in your orc city."

"You're making a big mistake, Kline," he hissed between his teeth.

"Not as big as yours, apparently," I responded. "Or is there something about living with orcs that appeals to you? The women, perhaps? Presuming Lord Uldeth doesn't retain all your services, of course."

Belzig lunged, swinging his fist. I was waiting for it, and dropped to the ground. He moved in quick, trying to bring his boot heel down on my neck, but I rolled aside and scissored my legs, catching him behind the knees and pulling him down hard on the stone. We both came up at the same time, and I smashed a hard right into his ear, splitting it open, then stepped inside his swing to make two quick punches to the gut. The wind exploded out of him, and he sat down hard on the floor. I backed up to let him think about it a little bit.

He stood up unsteadily, blood pouring from his ruptured ear onto his pricey shirt. His face was flushed and sweaty. For a moment, I think Belzig almost considered backing down. But I should have known that he wasn't the kind to finish a fight fair if he didn't have to.

The only warning I had was the sudden gleam in his eyes, then his ornate rapier was in his hand as if it had jumped there of its own accord. He caught me off-guard—as he lunged, all I could do was raise my left hand to block the thrust. The thin blade sliced cleanly, almost painlessly, across my palm, but I managed to knock the force upward so that the thrust passed harmlessly over my shoulder.

Stumbling backward, I drew my own shorter, heavier blade, the blood flowing freely from the stinging cut on my left hand. "I should have known you couldn't take a hit," I spat.

"You'll have to show me how it's done," he rejoined as he lunged toward me in classical fencing form.

My blade narrowly deflected his attack, and he followed with a quick slash that I wasn't able to block, leaving a short cut across my forearm. He was faster than me with that blade and, it quickly became apparent, better than me at swordplay in general. But was he smarter? My journey had taught me a lot of lessons—many of them none too enjoyable.

We danced around for a few minutes, neither gaining an advantage, but neither giving ground either. My strokes were shorter than his with my heavier blade, and many of them he was able to avoid without even bringing his blade to bear. He was tiring me and, we both knew, beating me.

"We both know how this ends, Kline," he said. "Just tell me what you're after and give me the wayfinder you follow, and I'll let you live. There'll be other secrets to chase."

"No thanks."

His face took on a strange expression. "Very well," he said woodenly. "Your kind never makes the big discoveries anyway, you know. You just keep trying until someone better comes along and plucks it from your grasp. I suppose I was going to kill you all along anyway."

We circled a moment, and he waited until I inevitably made a misstep, tired as I was. Then he lunged in hard. I couldn't get my sword over to block it or get out of the way in time. I twisted and took the blade through my left shoulder instead of through the breast as he had intended. He paused with a look of triumph—and then faltered as he realized I had him.

My sword swing, too slow to block his lunge, was already en route to its destination. Before he could withdraw his own blade, mine came down hard on the thin blade above the pommel guard. The pain it sent ringing up through my shoulder was excruciating, but the fragile rapier blade snapped, and the force of it sent him stumbling backward, out of the reach of my reverse swing.

Belzig realized where he was when the floor started to tip. Dropping his useless blade, he grabbed the still-dangling rope and hauled hard on it to pull the counterweight down and arrest the tilting of the floor. The trap's jaws, protruding from floor and ceiling about a foot, stopped. Their thick, pulverizing stone teeth had only just begun to close around where Belzig stood.

Belzig, too, was quivering with exhaustion after the fight. Without being tied in, as I had been, he was supporting his entire weight with wearied hands, and he'd grabbed it too late—the floor had already receded enough for the rope to lift him off his feet, dangling helplessly. He'd never make it off the trap alive without help.

His eyes showed that he knew it. Desperate, he forced his voice to remain calm.

"Kline, don't do this," he urged. "It's one thing to kill a man clean in a fight, but this—this isn't your way. If you let me die, you'll regret it forever. Get me out of this, and I swear I'll return to Urgir and leave you to your search. My oath as a Pathfinder."

What is it with giant bugs and spitting?

For the first time in days, I thought of Joskan. Belzig was right—I didn't like leaving people to die.

But damned if I wasn't getting good at it.

His first indication of my decision was the hurtling dagger that sliced cleanly through the rope, one of the better throws I've made. Freed of its burden, the counterweight rose swiftly through its gap in the ceiling. Belzig only had time for a quick scream as the stony jaws drew together, stone teeth occluding my view and revealing only a quick glimpse of the floor tilting suddenly beneath him. Then the stones slammed together with a muffled thud, and all sound from within ceased.

After a moment, the jaws retracted and the ceiling rose back into place. Where Belzig had stood was only a bloody smear across the trap door, where his shattered corpse had presumably slid into whatever ancient ossuary awaited below. A fitting grave for any Pathfinder, I suppose. And perhaps my own, before this whole thing was over.

Grabbing his lantern, I shuffled, bleeding, down the hallway. When I entered the vast cavern and beheld the vista of the massive city before me, its towers carved like snakes and obelisks and ziggurats dominating the stale air, I barely even noticed. Instead, I sat at the junction where my tunnel opened out onto the incongruous vault and stared without seeing as I withdrew one of the precious healing potions from my pack and swiftly drained it.

I could feel a tiny niggling doubt at the back of my mind as the healing magic did its work. Belzig was right.

I regretted losing that dagger.

City of Serpents

By Jay Thompson

06 Neth, 4707 ar

I've snuffed Belzig's lantern, and paused for a moment with my back to a cave wall to write by candlelight. Forgive the rough scrawl and drops of wax: my palm and shoulder still burn from that miserable sycophant's wounds. His lantern's fuel was nearly spent anyway. I only have my three sunrods left—eighteen hours' illumination. Who knows how long I've been under Urgir and in the Darklands by now, or how much longer I'll remain beneath the earth? A candle does the trick for now anyway: the stone all around me holds a faint fluctuating glow, and I'm not eager for a too-bright light to summon unanticipated company when my eyes are on the page.

"Learn quickly, or your school will be your tomb."

Venture-Captain Shevala told me that years ago, when I was new to the Pathfinders, and I'd like to think that it'd make her proud to see me now. On this journey, I've learned—quickly—that the enemy of my enemy isn't my friend.

Belzig, to have tracked me all this way, must have outwitted every sort of foe I've faced. But before I fed him to the snake-mouth trap, he was inches away from cutting me down. And as for other potential allies… Well, I'll bet the degenerate dwarves I slipped past welcome any orc in the Darklands with an axe in the belly. Fair enough. But if I hadn't called up that immense worm outside their city, they'd have done the same for me, or for any other Pathfinder that crossed their path. So much for dwarven hospitality.

And the enemy of those dwarves?

In the massive limestone-dusted bas-relief I'm sitting in front of, men with serpentine heads and tails sit atop ziggurat-shaped thrones, lines of men and dwarves kneeling and cowering before them. Atop ceremonial altars, men are flayed alive beneath twisting, slithering runes, or driven in like cattle past mountains of skulls by more snakemen bearing strangely shaped pikes which they use to punish the downtrodden figures drawing their chariots. Countless frescoes and mosaics, and all variations on the same themes: Dominance. Fear. Control.

One thing's for sure: whoever inhabited this immaculate ruin of a city was nobody's friend.

From the overlook where I first emerged, I saw that the city sprawled out without a readily apparent design. Conical buildings encircled snake-headed central chimneys, spiked ziggurats and arches twisted toward the ceiling, and every surface—street, wall, roof—was covered in swirling designs and serpentine pictograms. The streets wound forward in ramps, smooth with the polish of once-regular use. In the furtive illumination of my sunrod, the white dust and the gleaming stone beneath it glowed as if from some pale internal flame. In a ring in the city's center, barely visible in my light, I saw identical necropoli—or temples?—built in long, wicked spikes, like a compass rose or a mace.

Feeling tiny, I whistled once sharply and waited for movement.

Nothing. Even the air felt deserted, as it muffled my sound into silence.

In my first adventure-thirsty years, before I sought treasure and served the Will of the Ten, I'd made spare cash as a guide for Taldan big-game hunters. I hadn't been much of a tracker, but considering most of my employers were the type who hunted from sedan chairs, it didn't matter much. Still, I don't have to look too close now at these silent boulevards to see no foot—or tail—has ventured through here in hundreds of years. Or is it thousands?

My wayfinder points me dead ahead.

Here where I pause at the city's entrance, I feel how, after days underground, time begins to fold and melt in on itself. After waking from sleep into the pitch-blackness of a cold camp, after turning a corner and finding chambers you'd seemingly just left, even the stone-soberest Pathfinder might wonder—Is this the cavern I just crossed? Where does this corridor end? Haven't I been in here before?

My wayfinder has been an easy guide, from the dwarven gates of the Darklands down to the first gruesome bas-relief at the entrance to this city. It's my mind and instincts whose guidance I've begun to doubt. My skin is crawling, and I believe I can almost feel on my body the sheer weight of stone overhead, of time and menace around me. Every alien detail of this city is immaculate—there are no flaws on the bizarre statues of armor-clad snakemen in every plaza, only dust; the barred domes of oubliettes are unbent; even the glass of the houses' round windows is unbroken.

And perhaps some sort of treasure is hidden in chests in every building. But until I see where my wayfinder leads, I'm not about to poke around. Call it an uncharacteristic lack of curiosity if you must, but experience teaches Pathfinders that good and bad fortune are like two folded hands, and pressing your luck is the surest way to see it turn on you. I'll have plenty of time to explore on my way out. If the city of these snakemen is the end of the line for my wayfinder, I'm not about to let it be the end of the line for me as well.

08 Neth, 4707 ar

Looming before me, the gate of the necropolis yawned like an unhinged jaw. The whole structure throbbed with the same unsteady light that illuminated the city, but it seemed brighter to me somehow. The alkaline smell of the cavern's omnipresent white dust, too, seemed more potent and harsh. Did the magic that imbued the stones weave a stronger spell here? Or perhaps the necropolis seemed brighter only in my mind: this was the building my wayfinder drew me toward—my goal, perhaps the culmination of my quest.

In the mouth of the building, there was the same white dust, blown by who knows what wind into perfect miniature drifts and dunes. The air now was perfectly still. Along the building's floor were forking designs in dense red tile mosaic, engulfed just inside by deep black shadow. The gate I approached, set in the half-morning-star shape of the necropolis, was ringed with fangs.

I walked twenty paces into the bare entryway, my feet grating over the dust of the floor. Suddenly my wayfinder trembled, then began to spin wildly, swinging from one side to another. Something was confusing its orientation. Or, not confusing—redirecting.

Along each wall stood imposing oval portals, easily as wide as three men. I took a step toward the nearest and my wayfinder swung toward it. I took two steps to the left and the needle twirled, settling on the second portal I was now approaching. No single artifact, but something in each of these chambers, was attracting the wayfinder's ioun stone. This, I hadn't counted on.

I stepped through this second portal and tossed in my sunrod. The room flooded with light, and my heart skipped a beat.

The circular ceiling was plated with gold, with an embossed onyx inset spanning the forty feet of the room in a long tapering slit. Set in the ceiling's gold I could see smatterings of green and red, roughened patches of color and fainter iris-colored glows made by hundreds of painstakingly placed green and red tiles. I was standing, a single baffled human, beneath the image of an unblinking serpent's eye.

And ringing the room, what I'd been pursuing for thousands of miles, what my ioun stone must have been created for, what had cost me all my sacrifices and brought me all my adventures: dozens of identical stone cylinders, each carved to be scaly-smooth like a reptile's belly and set upright into the stone of the floor.

I was here. And something—I felt the intuition in me like a sliver—something wasn't quite right.

Other than the obelisks, the room was bare. So why was every muscle in my body going tense? I had lost my dagger, but I still had a long vicious-looking knife I'd bought from the Steel Eaters in Urgir. My heart in my mouth, I clenched the knife hilt with one hand, and with the other, rapped the first sarcophagus lightly. Dum dum dum: a muffled sound.

So the casket wasn't empty. But I heard no response or answering noise—from within, or from anywhere.

If I was a little cautious, blame it on my mental image of the cylinder springing open and a crumbling mummified snakeman tumbling out onto the floor: a cosmic gotcha by the ioun stone.

I ran my hand over the cylinder's surface. My damp palms came away faintly dusty. The stone was cut into scales, but felt perfectly unyielding.

It was then that something caught my eye. The necropolis's zigzagging floor mosaic branched, in another radial design, to the foot (or tail?) of each sarcophagus, including this one. But, with my sunrod glowing on the floor, I could see that at each radial arm's tip was a familiar shape made of tiny green stones, with a curious fingernail-sized gap in its exact center.

Heavy with foreboding, I set down my pack and crouched, studying my wayfinder. As I suspected, the gap matched the device's ioun stone perfectly. I pulled the stone loose from its setting and pressed it into place in the floor.

For a long second, there was nothing.

Then, with a whisper, as if only curtains were parting, the cylinder's front surface split. I found myself face-to-face with a stone-dead but perfectly preserved snakeman clutching a staff, sitting on a bundle of scrolls and a heap of loose gems and gold three feet high. His features were those of a snake, his torso was a man's, and beneath his waist was a tail whose coils he rested upon. No weapons: only a staff, and a rich and unbelievably new-seeming red robe that hung to his feet. With the front of the cylinder gone, the gems he stood on sagged an inch and a few gold coins bounced out onto the tile floor.

I stepped back. Was this an ordinary soldier, or royalty—perhaps even a priest? Did every tomb in every spire like this have a snakeman in it? Was each as full of treasure? What was written on those scrolls? Was there a single gem, or a single scroll, my ioun stone was guiding me to? And how heavy would a snakeman corpse be to move anyway?

Then, in a moment, such questions became entirely academic.

The snakeman's tail began to curl.

It might have been the wind, except there wasn't a breath of wind. There was only my breath. And this tail curling.

Then before I was fully aware of what I was doing, I leapt back, knife at the ready. With one thrash the snakeman leapt to life, its two wiry man-arms heaving it bodily up from the sepulcher. I stumbled as it raised its staff toward me and I lifted one arm to block a blow, then realized that it wasn't my body the creature was reaching for. The staff struck my knife-arm and my vision flooded with cancerous green light as the snakeman reached into my mind.

!Man man shoeshod kneel man servant of the truepeople kneel you kneel before.

I swung my knife at him and even as I leapt I felt my arm losing its strength, my knife slipping in nerveless fingers, legs growing heavy. His staff pressed into my arm as if sealed in place.

He stepped toward me. My feet carried me back. His tail scraped over the floor; it coiled and he rose over me.

!Thousand thousand upon years waiting long years we dreamt we dreamt for you shoeshod man all men grow strong ready serve men serve you kneel you KNEEL you kneel.

His voice was a whisper in both of my ears. My knees buckled, then righted themselves. I pressed one palm to my forehead—his staff remained tight against me—and screamed, the loudest sound my lungs could make.

!Big breath shoeshod big breath. Our stone led you dullblade under the thousand-years-we-waited earth our stone led you our stone found YOU. Found you in the sunworld. Kind apart. One of many one of many one welcome we welcome we awaken. Our stone our stone.

My wayfinder. My mind fogged then cleared. I hung against the wall like a marionette. My ioun stone glowed in the floor. My weakness was infinite. The stone was theirs; its purpose had been to draw me here. I could feel the snakeman as surely as if he had pinned me down.

!Sleepers ready and strong here are many sleepers many of us sleepstrong and ready. We are a kind apart. So close we were, not long it would be in the old days been—sunworld OURS the truepeople's ours ours ours.

I listened. I couldn't have moved if I'd tried.

!The sunworld so nearly the sunworld so nearly ours. But came darkness then with the fall of the fall of the star then night and more than night an age. Withdrew ourselves withdrew drew ourselves apart and we waited.

!Strong are we strong were we and so remain we numerous.

I nodded, my head nodded. The stone—it was all I could think of.

!One enough deepdown one enough to awaken us all us all us all in the deepdown deepdown I am HE he who will awaken others.

!Long down many the downdeep you have followed your stone down dim and hollow.

I nodded. Of course. Somewhere, some part of me reached out a hand to strike at the creature. Somewhere else, another part of me—the stone—lay glowing in the tiles of the floor. The snakeman slid toward me.

!Shoeshod mildtongue dullblade dimlight man you lay you lay your weapons down your dear devices down.

The words wrapped around me. Where I needed breath, there were the snakeman's words. Some part of me struggled. My reply felt pushed out far away by tremendous pressure—like a grinding millwheel.

"Get. Out. Of my mind. You—are not—my master."

!Stonemaster the stone is your masterstone you are the stone. Many the stones of ours there are but the first the first to come was YOU. Shoeshod mildtongue man it led you it led it brought you. The stone your master we the stone's master we ARE we ARE.

My body stood weakly. Yes: I was led. The snakeman was absolutely right. Some part of me struggled to say a word. My feet stepped once, twice, to the next shut sepulcher. Somewhere, I glowed in the tiles of the floor. The snakeman watched my body. I watched my body.

!But but but you have come you are here the chambers open you are ours you HAVE come you have COME you are the stone. You shoeshod must the gap touch of the second tomb. Must touch! And the next. And tomb shall open. And the next. OPEN.

I watched some strange hand—my hand—reaching across the floor. I was the stone. All I had to do was touch where a second ioun stone would fit. The staff led the arm. The room was lit the color of the stone. The snakemen would be freed from their sleep. And some part of me, with a last bit of strength, sought a word.

"Desna!"

Startled, the snakeman stepped back.

There was a blue light in the tomb.

The snakeman's whisper broke its rhythm, the staff broke its contact, only for a moment. Like a man cut down, I felt my muscles give way and I crumpled to the floor.

Moths, luminescent and blue, were suddenly swarming around the snakeman, the babble and susurrus of their voices overpowering his. My hand swept over the floor, closed on the handle of my knife. More moths poured in through the doorway, the same creatures that had found me clinging for dear life days ago in the caverns above. The snakeman, his mind pulled away from mine with a yank, struck out again and again with his staff.

In another moment, I would have been completely in his sway. Now each moth he struck flared into a crimson cinder, but it didn't matter: he was surrounded, he was swarmed. Some new strength, airy and unforeseen, filled my limbs, and I stood. Could these be Desna's messengers? My mind full of the din of the creatures, I lurched forward. My eyes saw—I saw—the snakeman's silhouette thrashing in the moths' throng. I lifted the knife and watched its blade waver. For every moth the snakeman burnt, five more seemed to come. I moved my arm up and down once, staring at it. Then I drove the knife forward, straight into the snakeman's throat.

He died with a shriek and a gargle, his tumble wrenching the knife out of my hands as his body collapsed onto the tomb floor. As if the sun were coming out, I felt the snakeman's spell fully cast out of my mind. The moths rose as he fell, withdrawing as they had come, flapping out the mouth of the tomb.

I sat against the wall, counted fifty breaths, and at each gave thanks to Desna. A year of burnt offerings every day. A thousand candles lit. Forty nights fasting under the north star. The moths were gone now, but I counted fifty breaths more, shut my eyes, opened them. My sunrod still lit the room weakly where it had fallen.

Why is it that everyone I meet down here wants to kill me?

Possession is mercifully rare: wizards strong enough to master a mind are not my usual line of work. Double possession—and how else but by a second intervention could I have broken the snakeman's spell?—is about as common as a goblin at a wine-tasting. Of all the Pathfinders whose exploits were ever chronicled, only Durvin Gest had the misfortune to find his mind such a battleground.

I sat back up, crawled carefully over the bloodstained robes and corpse of the snakeman, and looked into his strange sepulcher.

I hadn't been imagining. Good and bad fortune are like two folded hands: in the base of the open cylinder of the sepulcher were heaps of gems and gold. Uncut diamonds, gold rings, platinum, topaz, jade-carved snakes, and more complex scenes—grim reliefs like those cut into the city walls, but here etched in silver and rubies. Looking back at the corpse of my would-be assassin, I saw his long tail was ringed in silver circlets, his wiry fingers adorned with crystal rings.

I stirred the heap and collected a few choice gems, emeralds and rubies, stuffing them into my pockets and the hidden compartment of my poor beaten-up pack. Nothing's as strong as habit, I guess. After all, if I ever made it back to the surface (and here I said another quick prayer), I knew I'd have expenses to pay and bribes to hand out.

And I'd do it without a guide. Tentatively, I removed the ioun stone from its niche in the floor, and instead of socketing it into its usual setting, thrust both stone and wayfinder into my pocket. All this time, the symbol of my calling has been leading me (and others? had it hinted that I was only the first?) to this mummified city, a sleeping giant prepared to emerge and reclaim its throne once humanity had advanced far enough to come looking for them, proving with our tenacity that we were competent to serve. From here on out, the thing wasn't going to be of much use, but I wasn't about to leave the key resting in the lock of a slumbering serpent army for the next explorer to come along.

The next explorer.

The certainty came on like a spear to the chest. Counter to all my Pathfinder duties—to report, to cooperate, to explore—I knew no news of this place could be allowed to reach the treasure-hunters of the surface.

The Decemvirate had sealed certain secrets before. The site of the treasures of Ammelon VI, the contents of the recalled Fifth Pathfinder Chronicle: both of these the Decemvirate had deemed better kept secret. Surely, if the way to this dark city were made known, the cost to all the peoples of Golarion would be vastly too great. I would return to Absalom immediately (it meant only a jog across orc battlefields and a few chartered boats—child's play, considering what I'd been through) and I would make my case to Shevala, then to the Decemvirate itself if need be. The city must remain hidden.

I turned to leave the chamber—

—and stepped straight into a familiar figure.

Belzig. Alive. My rival shoved me hard and I fell to the floor, still weak. There was blood caked onto his ear, but otherwise he looked the same as when I'd seen him just days before. He stood with his feet apart, ready to leap at me, but smirked like a schoolboy. He held a starknife lightly in one hand, ready to stab or throw.

"Belzig," I gasped. "You're alive."

"Very astute, Kline."

I started to rise, but his foot lashed out and caught me in the chin, sending a spray of blood across the stone floor. The starknife flashed through the air and caught my arm as I fell. I screamed. He was kneeling on my chest.

My mind raced. How had he escaped?

"You're—a better Pathfinder—than I—thought, Belzig." I could scarcely breathe with his weight on my ribs and the blood and broken teeth filling my mouth.

"And you, Kline, are a disappointment."

"We have to get out of this city."

He smiled. "But you worked so hard to get us here."

"Didn't you see the carvings? The snakemen are waiting for someone to open their tomb!"

"Just one?"

"Just—one." He pulled out his starknife, and I stifled a cry. My arm was bleeding into my tunic.

"You think I'm afraid of wormfolk?"

"These aren't wormfolk."

He scratched my chin with his blade. "That dead one looks like wormfolk enough to me."

"They're telepaths. They control others."

"And you're weak-minded."

He stretched out one leg and kicked the corpse with his boot.

"Belzig, we can't touch anything in here."

"Of all the sentences I thought I'd never hear a Pathfinder say."

"Anything."

"Except the jewels in that open sepulcher, I suppose."

I glared. "Anything else."

He smiled sweetly. "You left me pinned and bleeding in that trap to die."

"You're a stooge."

He cut a gash into my cheek with a swift gesture, and I cried out in pain. "No," he said, leaning over me, "I'm about to be famous. You're a Pathfinder who walks away from knowledge."

He set down his starknife, reached behind him into his pack, and pulled out a length of climbing rope.

"You're a Pathfinder who serves an orc," I spat.

"I think we can safely say that phase of my career has come to a close. Once the Grand Lodge publishes my findings, I think I'll spend a few decades enjoying my fame in Absalom. Maybe get asked to join the Decemvirate. You never know. "

"Belzig, listen to me. Looters and Pathfinders are exactly what the snakemen want."

"Well, that's something they and I have in common." He tied my hands behind me.

"Listen. It was only by sheer luck that I survived. A human who opens another sepulcher, any other sepulcher here, will unleash a horror no one can contain."

"Which will explain your disappearance."

"The next treasure seeker who disturbs a tomb in this city won't be able to stop these things from awakening! I'm sure of it!"

"That falls under the category of not—my—problem." He tugged hard on the ropes. My arms were bound behind me; I kicked up hard but he grabbed my ankle, threw his weight down, and tied one length of rope around my calves. He shoved my pack across the floor of the tomb. He didn't even seem to break a sweat.

"Besides, Kline." He smirked. "You're losing your nerve." He counted off on his fingers with a grin: "Pathfinders report, explore, and cooperate. We share information."

He caught my head between his hands, tore a strip of fabric off my tunic, and gagged me with it. Then he stood up.

"Which one of us is keeping the faith," he said, "and which one of us is keeping secrets?"

He walked over to the open sarcophagus, dug through it, and drew out a jade-carved snake, a sapphire, and a diamond the size of a robin's egg.

"I'm afraid I'll miss you, Kline. Kline the not-so-curious." He picked me up and dragged me, and I flopped like a caught fish, scrabbling and dragging my feet over the floor. It was no contest: he tossed me into the sepulcher on top of the snakeman's jewels. "Kline the faint-hearted." He held up his diamond. "Certainly not Kline the Pathfinder. I'll tell them to leave that off your epitaph."

He turned and sauntered up the ramp and out of the chamber. I panted for breath to plead, call out, curse. No breath came—nothing but the taste of the gag cinched between my lips. He turned around from the antechamber to yell, "This really is a magnificent tomb, Kline!" Then he was gone.

Call me crazy, but I don't think we want these things waking up.

Here's another choice bit of Pathfinder wisdom: when someone's got you in a tight spot, just keep them talking.

The whole time he was hauling me across the floor and telling me I wasn't keeping the faith, Belzig hadn't bothered to watch where he was walking. Why should he? He'd arrived after I'd dropped my knife, and the light was poor. As he left, maybe he had surveyed the floor of the tomb once more and, not seeing anything of his, had walked away.

But he had let me drag my feet as he carried me. And after I fought, he'd let me land in the sepulcher with my legs under me.

A little divine intervention had saved me before. A little of my own good sense would save me now.

I squirmed onto my back, and felt the blade of the knife clenched between my worn-out boot heels. A little flexing of the muscles and the blade began to dig into my rope wrappings. There was a pop, and my legs were free. I arched my back, picked the blade up between the free tips of my fingers, and went to work. Another rope cut—then another—and another. I stretched my legs and my arms and stood. I grabbed another good-sized ruby for luck.

I had a new mission: word of this city must never be allowed out.

I would have to track Belzig more slyly than he had tracked me. I'd have to be quicker and smarter than he was. I'd probably have to put him out of commission more definitively than he had with me. And I didn't have a moment to spare.

But when had I lost to a coward before?

When, cast aside, had I ever stayed down?

And when do I ever have a moment to spare?

I snatched up my pack and bolted out the temple door.

A Thousand Miles to Absalom

By Amber Scott

01 Kuthona, 4707 ar

The rain pounded like the throb of my heartbeat in my ears. Lightning seared across the sky, and thunder echoed my relentless, silent vow.

I will catch him.

I'd already been chasing Belzig for a week, ever since I clawed my way out of the Darklands just northeast of Gallowspire. His trail hadn't been easy to find, and it took me two precious hours to make certain I was following his true tracks and not a false trail. For days I tracked him south and east, around the edge of the Hungry Mountains, sleeping as little as I dared and pressing myself as hard as I could without risking exhaustion. The last thing I needed was to cripple myself just as I came within striking distance.

Now this blasted thunderstorm threatened to hamper my progress further. Up ahead, on the side of the road, sat a lonely hostel. Stone walls to blot out the thunder, heavy shutters to mask the lightning, and a stout wooden door to close out the rain. A sign rattling in the gusting wind proclaimed it the Sturdy Bedpost. It was as much as I could hope for in this dismal stretch of Razmiran.

Away from home, anything that looks too good to be true probably is—and even at home, such things are likely to cut your throat and steal your purse. But I digress.

I pounded on the door between rolls of thunder. It opened suddenly, and despite myself I took a step backward. The man in front of me was tall and well built, with white hair spilling over the contoured iron mask which covered his face with that of his god, the holy Razmir. Through holes in the metal visage, bright eyes peered out at me. Throwing the door wide, he ushered me inside.

"A terrible night to be out."

"I thank you for your hospitality."

The priest's hair spoke of his age, but he moved with easy grace. A second priest, similarly masked, stepped forward and took my cloak. Together they escorted me into the dining room.

"We will prepare a meal for you and provide you with a bed for the night. Any donation you can make in return is humbly appreciated."

"Again, I thank you," I said. "Your hostel is a godsend for those out in such weather."

The priest's blank metallic expression was impossible to read, and despite his hospitality I understood immediately why so many avoid Razmir's chosen.

"A godsend indeed," he said. "We will speak more of that at dinner, when our other guest can join us."

"Other?" I echoed. The word slipped out as I stepped through an archway into a gloomy dining hall. A table, bowed with the weight of past feasts, held a few small platters. A fire glowed dully in the hearth. Silhouetted against the flames, a figure turned to face me.

"Indeed, it is a night for travelers," the priest said.
Of course.

Belzig.

I saw my first instinct reflected in Belzig's stare. The desire to fly across the room and slam my dagger, fists, anything into his soft flesh again and again. A third priest, smaller and apparently younger than the other two, set wine out on the table.

Too many witnesses. Too many innocents. My blade stayed where it was, and I affected a smile. "A warm greeting on this cold night."

"To you as well," Belzig replied.

"You know each other?" the priest who had admitted
me asked.

"But a little," Belzig said. "You came through Ustalav, did you not?"

"I did," I said. "That is a perilous land. Fortunately, I possess friends in the area. As I traveled through Varno, one ally approached me and told me the town ahead was poised to ambush me, having heard that I brought ill fortune in my shadow."

I took a seat at the table. Belzig sat opposite me, his dark gaze never leaving my face. The priests sat as well and dished out the cold slices of meat and slabs of bread.

"The superstitions of Ustalav are well known in these parts," Belzig said mildly. "Frustrating and pitiful. Were you forced to detour very far?"

"Oh no," I said. "I know the superstitiousness of Ustalav as well. With a borrowed dress and shawl and a change of tone, I entered town as a crone, a Varisian fortuneteller. I ‘foretold' that the people there had been misled, and that I saw a cursed future for all children in the village unless the one who set the town against me was repaid in kind."

The first priest, who I now took to be in charge, gave a chuckle that echoed through his mask. "Astounding. Such guile is admirable."

Belzig's smile wavered, and he rubbed his shoulder. I had hoped the people of Ustalav would turn on him and slow his progress enough for me to catch up. Apparently they did.

Belzig and I ate in silence for a time while the priests talked. The white-haired one droned on in praise of Razmir, who had obviously guided us here, and about what a great blessing it was that we found this place. Through the haze of hatred surrounding me, his words began to penetrate. I don't trust a lot of gods, but from everything I'd heard Razmir was crazier than most. The only thing more fickle than a god or a king is the two of them combined.

It suddenly occurred to me that I might be in great danger. Fortunately, that meant that Belzig was in danger, too.

"Indeed," I said, breaking in on the priest's diatribe, "tales of Razmir's greatness have drifted along the river currents all the way to Absalom, where I first heard them. My friend here"—I tilted my knife toward Belzig—"has often listened to my tales of Razmir's glory. Though he follows a different path, he was forced to admit that they were interesting stories."

"Stories!" The priest turned his fixed expression on Belzig.

The Pathfinder all but gnashed his teeth. "My respect for the tales was great."

"They are not mere tales." The priest turned to me once more. "Do you follow the word of Razmir, then?"

My ability to spin a good story almost always serves me well. I launched into a rousing description of how Razmir's deeds have long inspired me. Belzig stammered and stuttered, allowing me to talk smoothly overtop of him. I looked great.

The fire was almost out and the food was stone cold. The old priest stood and said, "Truly you display uncommon knowledge and reverence for Razmir. And your stories mark you as a man of skill and poise."

"Thank you," I replied.

"Tonight you sleep in our finest suite. Tomorrow you must accompany us to the Exalted Wood, where we shall teach you more about the glory of Razmir. Your friend, unfortunately, has neither the instinct nor drive for such training."

Behind him, Belzig smirked at me.

"Still," the priest continued, "he may find his calling in time, and the priests that instruct there are always in need of additional servants. He will come as well."

We both protested, all enmity momentarily set aside in the face of greater peril, but the priests insisted, in the process introducing us to several of their hulking brethren who helped tend the inn. In the Exalted Wood, I'd learn so much. I'd find my place in Razmir's plan. On the morrow, I'd understand everything.

I've heard plenty of tales of the Exalted Wood. No one who goes there comes back the same.

I did say my ability to spin a good story almost always serves me well.

I stayed awake until the moon had crossed the peak of the sky and the storm had begun to lessen. The priests were so committed to my training they'd stationed a guard outside my room, to ensure my rest was undisturbed. A few arcane syllables sent him tumbling to the ground in a deep sleep. I picked the lock, dragged his body inside my room, and began my painstakingly slow creep through the hallways to the stairs.

At the top of the stairs, I sensed movement down a corridor and whirled, drawing my sword. Frozen mid-creep, Belzig stared back at me.

I took a step forward, but Belzig stopped me with a raised hand. "Start something now, Kline, and you'll bring every zealot in this place down on our heads."

"Maybe it's worth it."

"Really? Well then—be my guest." He spread his arms wide and waited.

He was right, of course. I put my weapon away. Belzig's death would be satisfying, but it wasn't worth my own. Still, the look of satisfaction on his face almost made me change my mind. Shoulder-to-shoulder, we skulked down the stairs and into the shadowed dining hall.

Another guard waited there, ready to raise an alarm. As he drew breath, Belzig leaped forward and grabbed for his throat. The guard flinched back, and I spun around behind him, pinning him between me and Belzig. I brought my fist down on his head, and he went down with a squeaking sigh.

We were halfway through the foyer when Belzig dropped a pellet I didn't even know he had hidden in his hand. It exploded with a flash and a bang, accompanied by a cloud of smoke that choked and burned. A door banged open, and shouts went up throughout the building. Tears poured from my eyes as I staggered forward, sword drawn. Two shapes rushed at me through the smoke, and I fought them just long enough to wedge myself out the front door. Shutters opened on the upper level and I heard chanting through the hiss of rain. With Belzig nowhere to be seen, and no time to look for him, I put my head down and pumped hard for the relative safety of the forest. So much for a warm bed.

13 Kuthona, 4707 ar

I‘ve found beauty in the murderous peaks of Belkzen, the fire-baked Storval Plateau, and even in the chill depths of the Darklands. But Galt is never-ending gray to me.

The dank, warm rain pounds the colorless ground into sticky mud. Leafless trees hang their gray branches before me, as if set to bar my passage. The rain-swollen clouds hang so thick and heavy they blot out the sun.

I struck out southeast from the hostile hostel in Razmir, hoping to come across Belzig's tracks on my journey. I lost him several times in the River Kingdoms, but fortunately I appeared to have as many friends in this area as he did. I dropped in on a companion from years ago, now a bandit queen, who ferried me speedily across her small realm and relayed rumors of a traveler fitting Belzig's description. Within a day I'd picked up his trail, curving south into the near reaches of Galt. By noon the next day I was slogging through the steaming rain and boot-sucking mud.

I was hours into my journey when I saw my first splash of color, a puddle of blood in the road ahead turning the mud a sickening, clotted pink. As I drew closer I could make out the body from which it stemmed, its face turned away. His build was a shade too small but I convinced myself it could be Belzig. The cloak was the same, the boots mud-stained enough. I told myself that he met an untimely and grisly end on this gray path, and thus saved me the trouble of tripping on his footsteps all the way to Absalom. The words had the force of a prayer.

I approached the corpse slowly, not knowing what surprises it might hide. I knelt next to the form, one hand on my blade, and turned the body over.

It wasn't Belzig. And, as it turned out, it wasn't dangerous.

That quality belonged solely to the armed men who suddenly rose up from the muck all around me.

I attempted to backpedal and make a run for it, but the nearest one knocked me sprawling over the corpse. I tried to roll with it, but the slick gray mud thwarted me and I skidded over to another assailant, who kicked me in the head.

There were six of them, all shouting, their voices muddled and foreign. I caught the occasional word: "sympathizer," "traitor," "crimes." I dragged my sword out of its sheath and lashed at the nearest attacker. He fell back, crying out and clutching his stomach. I forced myself up on my knees and flailed to keep the mob back, but the mud sabotaged me again. As a group of three pressed forward, one beat my blade hard with his staff, and the slick hilt flew from my hand.

I tried to use the distraction to get to my feet and run—find higher ground, find a weapon, find out what the hell was going on.

Only one attacker directly blocked my path, but he had a cudgel and knew how to use it. I had barely started toward him when he brought the beam crashing down on my sore head.

I fell. Eyes open, I stared at the expanse of mud pressed against my cheek until black stole in to replace the gray and take away the pain.

I didn't really expect to wake up, and when I did it seemed that I might have slipped into another dream. How else to explain the coarse rope binding my hands behind my back, the howls of a crowd hammering in my ears, the warped boards mottled with old bloodstains bumping beneath my feet?

I blinked several times and my eyes watered freely, washing away the crust of mud on my eyelashes. Strong hands held my arm and half-carried, half-dragged me up the flight of steps. The ropes cut into my wrists and forearms so tightly I couldn't even bend my arms. A cold drizzle misted my face. I raised my head a little and saw the platform to which I was headed.

Two men stood upon it. One shouted at the crowd, a litany of my crimes. Apparently I was an enemy sympathizer, sent to infiltrate and betray their town.

The other man wore simple robes and a hood of gray silk for a mask. He stood next to the guillotine.

I'd heard of the "final blades" of Galt before, tools of execution that drained and imprisoned their victims' souls, but like all the other stories of paranoia, violence, and pogroms to come out of Galt, I'd assumed a certain degree of exaggeration. I was wrong.

The stock was made of solid oak, heavy and impassive. The track ran eight feet straight up, held steady by an oaken crossbar. The blade sat at the top of the track, its edge glinting in the gray light.

It hung there, waiting.

"What's going on?" I asked, my voice thick. My captor stood me upright on the platform while the speaker whipped the crowd into a frenzy. Heavyset and ugly, he carried my rucksack over one meaty shoulder.

"You've a date with Razor Mary." The grip on my arm tightened. "You stopped to help a wounded Chelaxian, 'stead of passing by or running him through for good measure. Maybe he was even a friend of yours, yeah?"

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. I didn't even know he was Chelish."

"Yeah, well, we heard about your plans here. You won't be seeing 'em through."

He shifted his grip on my elbow and I glanced down. A jeweled ring, strangely ostentatious in this drab land, sat sparkling on his fat, heavy finger.

Belzig.

All hope of talking my way out of the situation evaporated. Given the state of the crowd, it's possible Belzig's word alone would have turned the town against me. But if he'd cemented the deal with gold…

The speaker appeared to be building to a climax. Razor Mary drew my gaze—she seemed to strain against the slim bit of wood that held her blade aloft. My mind spun.

Purchased allies often remain stubbornly loyal—it's better for business—so I knew I only had seconds. I whispered quickly.

"Look here—I know Belzig gave you a token of good faith to show you his word was true." I felt my captor stiffen. "The truth is, I have just as much wealth as he does. And I can be even more generous if you listen to what I have to say."

The crowd wasn't going to wait much longer for my justice. My head throbbed, my arms ached, and sweat collected around my neck where Razor Mary longed to strike. My captor whispered back, his voice harsh and suspicious. "I ain't setting you free, no matter how much you pay me."

"I wouldn't expect you to. I just want you to loosen these ropes." I heard him start to protest and I talked over him. "Just a bit, you don't have to let me free. I only want to go to my death with honor, not bound and bent like a dog. And in return, I'll tell you where my share of the treasure lies."

The crowd screamed a final demand for my blood. The speaker gestured, and my captor shoved me ahead. I could all but feel his resolve struggling with his greed.
I affected a limp, making myself seem as weak and helpless as I could.

"Don't let me die with such dishonor," I urged. I stumbled over a warped board and the crowd strained against the platform.

No monster is as dangerous as a righteous man.

My captor pushed against my back. I felt my bonds loosen a little, just enough for me to flex my wrists and straighten my arms. "There. Die as you like. Now tell me where my reward lies."

He didn't have time to act before I splayed my fingers in relief and whispered an incantation. The crowd howled something unintelligible and my captor jerked on my arm, sensing a trick, but it was too late. Flicking my hand as much as the bonds allowed, I cast a blob of dark liquid across the platform and directly into the silk mask of the executioner. Screaming, he clawed at the sizzling, popping ooze burning through the cloth, staggering backward and catching himself on Razor Mary's sturdy frame.

My captor cuffed me on the side of the head, managing to find the exact center of my existing bruise, but I gritted my teeth and remained conscious. The speaker screamed for help, the executioner struggled to get his footing, and I concentrated just hard enough to trigger the tiniest and simplest of my tricks—the same spell I'd used to thread a rope through the counterweight-trap weeks ago. The conjured force tapped aside the block that held Razor Mary's thirsty blade aloft.

The executioner had time for a single scream before the blade cut him in half. The crowd surged back from the spray of blood, panicked, and the shouting began as those in the back fell under the crush of bodies from the front. My captor cuffed me again and I heaved with all my might, swinging him around just enough to hit the puddle of greasy viscera. I tore free as he fell in the mix of blood and offal, stripping my pack from him in the process.

The speaker charged, and I kicked him square in the chest, knocking him back off the gallows and into the crowd. Then I turned, leaped from the back of the platform, and ran full-speed into the drizzling mist beyond, my gear flopping awkwardly behind me. The panicked shrieks of the crowd followed me for some time. Even when I had put the town long behind me and stopped to wriggle fully from my bonds, I couldn't stop shivering. In my hasty flight, I'd brushed right up against Razor Mary. She was warm.

Purring.

16 Kuthona, 4707 ar

Once again Belzig sought to lead me into a trap, and once again I'd barely escaped with my life, fleeing into the wilderness.

Once again, it'd done me not a bit of good.

I tracked Belzig west, back toward the net of rivers that would take us straight down to the Inner Sea and Absalom. At a fishing village I traded a gem from the serpent city for a new sword and a brace of daggers. When I reached the slippery, twisting stream of the Sellen River, though, I found Belzig's tracks continued on the other side, traveling up the banks of Kyonin.

I spent precious time ensuring that the tracks were genuine. Once again, Belzig passed up the direct route in order to—what? Leading me into a trap seemed the most likely action. But on the chance that he knew some shortcut, I followed the trail across the water and into the green glades of the elves.

Everyone in Avistan has heard stories of how keenly they elves of Kyonin guard their secrets, and the penalties they exact from trespassers. Perhaps this was his plan—to risk capture outright in the hopes that I'd be less fortunate. Yet by this point I had practically forgotten our mutual goal in my desire to come to grips with him, to repay him blow for blow for Galt and Razmiran. I followed the trail on into the cool trees, misted with glimmering dew.

Peace radiated from those trees. Forest creatures rustled in the undergrowth; once or twice a sleek, fat rabbit hopped across my trail. They looked at me with round, fearless eyes, perhaps never having seen a human before. Birds whispered and sang overhead. It would have been a lovely place to lie down and dream away my worries. Instead I forged ahead as quickly as I dared while maintaining caution. I knew Belzig was leading me this way for a reason, and I wasn't going to be caught off-guard again.

I found the trap not far into the forest. "Getting close, aren't I?" I muttered as I bent to inspect the snare. "Could you be getting nervous, Belzig?"

It was a simple net trap, but masterfully made and concealed. Had I not been quite so alert I would have blundered straight into it. The tiny string of bells caught my attention most of all. If the trap was alarmed, that meant Belzig was waiting for the signal.

Somewhere close.

I set up a blind of my own, working quickly to shade my chosen location with branches and undergrowth. Then I had only to wait until the next calm, trusting rabbit hopped by. I grabbed it around its middle and directed it into the net.

Kicking and whimpering, the rabbit shot up in the air. The string of bells jingled in the quiet forest. I ducked behind my blind, dagger out, waiting.

Belzig crashed through the undergrowth and fired at the net, the bolt flying past the rabbit and burying itself in a tree trunk. He cursed as he saw what struggled in the net. Then he yelled in pain and surprise as I rose up and loosed my dagger.

Galt's justice is as swift as it is questionable.

His reflexes were good. He turned at the last second, and the knife scored his shoulder, not his heart. I drew my sword as he charged. The world slowed, his thudding boots muffled by the mossy forest floor, and I brought my blade into line. My blood was on fire. Neither of us spoke—that time was behind us.

Suddenly a flight of arrows soared out of the trees and thudded into the ground before Belzig. He halted awkwardly, spinning around and scanning the trees for this new foe. I did the same, boiling with frustrated rage.

"That was a warning, poachers," a sibilant voice whispered from the trees. "There will not be another. Kill each other elsewhere, or we'll save you the trouble."

Belzig swore, turned on his heel, and ran. A thousand thoughts raced through my mind: explaining my side of the story, protesting my innocence, soliciting aid in my quest.

From the brush came the tiny, rasping slither of an arrow being nocked.

I ran. Stumbling, crashing through the trees, hearing the soft whiff of arrows behind me to spur me on my way. When I broke from the trees and stumbled into the river, I scanned the bank desperately up and down.

There was no sign of Belzig.

Cursing roundly, I floundered through the waters and struck out to the southeast. Belzig had played me well—I could have been miles ahead by now, had I not let my emotions get the better of me. From here on out, I would play it smart, rather than trying to finish Belzig personally. No more detours. No more traps. Nothing but this final race to the Inner Sea, and from there, to Absalom.

I prayed I would make it in time.

For all our sakes.

22 Kuthona, 4707 ar

The trip down the Sellen was anticlimactic after my desperate race across Avistan. Save for the trouble I had securing transportation—most of the traffic on the river was headed the other direction, sailors ferrying generous soldiers north to the Worldwound—my journey was swift and uneventful. I finally hit upon a small sailing ship traveling back down to the Inner Sea for another load of crusaders and paid for passage. Properly paranoid, I worried that Belzig might have hired assassins among the few passengers, wild-eyed and broken warriors fresh from the fray, but their personal demons consumed them. I don't think gold would have roused them from whatever dark memories cycled round in their minds.

Finally, this morning, the Sellen spilled into the Inner Sea. The dark blue waters surged and frothed around our ship. My heart leaped as I saw once again the port settlement of Cassomir, its cosmopolitan cityscape just a sliver of what waits for me on the Isle of Kortos. Within this city, I'll be able to board a ship bound for Absalom, the City at the Center of the World. I'll walk through the markets, the beggars, the hawkers and aristocrats, and come at last to the Grand Lodge. The end of my journey. And there I'll do everything in my power to hide my discovery.

Outside the windows of my inn, the gulls are calling, the salt spume frosting the air. I am suddenly very weary. It seems like decades since I stepped onto these docks, so much younger, so inexperienced and trusting. I came here as a boy, eager for knowledge. And again as a man, a Pathfinder, fresh from Absalom and ready to ply my craft. And now, at last, I am here again... but as what?

I'm not sure I know anymore.

End of the Road

By James L. Sutter

01 Abadius, 4708 ar

My hands clutched at salt-crusted wood, the railing rough and pitted from the ocean's continual spray, as below me the boat rocked in place with the rise and fall of each rolling swell. Above, gulls wheeled and clashed over herring and bits of trash, their massed numbers darkening the sky but still nothing compared to the harbor below them.

Absalom. City at the Center of the World. Even from just outside the great jaws of its port, the waterfront was numbing in its immensity. Docks stretched for miles, all of them bustling with ships of a thousand makes—traders and frigates, warships and junks, fishermen's skiffs and oceanic craft from lands whose names I might never learn. Though still too far away to see movement, I knew that every one of them seethed with life, longshoremen loading cargo and sailors jumping ship for a drink or a throw at the nearest bawdy house. They would find too many to count, ranging from ramshackle flophouses to the finest inns and brothels money could buy, lining the boardwalks and piers a dozen deep. Rich or poor, there's always someone in Absalom willing to take your money.

The docks, however, were only the beginning. Rising up from the waterfront, sometimes at such a radical pitch that the streets bore handrails of thick hemp ship's line, Absalom spread out like an anthill, roofs packed so close as to be a solid mass, a pointillist painting broken only by the thin lines of grand thoroughfares and the occasional green splash of parkland. Even with its overwhelming bulk, the sense of weight that struck newcomers speechless, I knew that the city proper was still hidden behind the horizon, its patchwork quilt stretching for miles in any direction. To think that man is capable of such a vast construction is alternately inspiring or terrifying, depending on your disposition.

Behind me, the captain of the Crescent finished haggling with the harbor pilot and paid over a handful of coins. The pilot, a sailor of middling years whose pressed uniform bore Absalom's seal, yelled something over the side before taking the wheel, and off to port I saw the small dory containing several similarly garbed men cast off and pull quickly away, sails catching the wind expertly and sending them skipping across the waves toward the next waiting vessel. As soon as they were free, the captain shouted orders, and the great ship began to move forward with the harbor pilot at its helm.

The greatest city in the Inner Sea, Absalom is a prize that many have sought to claim. To control its ports would be to control trade for the western world, and to tax each resident a copper would make a man wealthy beyond his wildest dreams. Since the dead god Aroden first raised the Isle of Kortos from the seafloor, streaming kelp and brine, the conquerors have come with blooded blades and silvered tongues, and all have been rebuffed. Their siege castles line the Cairnlands outside Absalom's walls, and the graves of countless soldiers produce vengeful ghosts and fertile farmland in turn.

Indeed, as they have fallen, these would-be tyrants have only strengthened Absalom's defenses. Beneath the pilot's steady hand, the Crescent tacked and glided past the steel-capped masts of sunken ships, their spars ready to gut enemy vessels and add them to the collection. To be a harbor pilot of Absalom requires years of diligent study, memorizing the location of each hulking wreck without the aid of charts, and is one of the most lucrative careers to which a sailor can aspire.

I leaned back and closed my eyes, listening to the roar of the city build, the familiar hum of people working, loving, and dying, humanity breathing as a single living beast. Welcoming me.

To be a Pathfinder is to never truly feel at home. Yet this is where my path began, and where my current chapter ends.

Absalom. The city stretched forth its arms and gathered me in.

Forgoing the gangplank, I vaulted over the rail as soon as the ship pulled into port, landing lightly on the worn wood of the pier and wavering slightly at the sudden stability. Though my gut told me I was already too late, I hadn't come this far just to give up the chase within sight of my goal.

From the docks I cut through the throngs of travelers and workmen and set out northwest toward the Foreign Quarter, disdaining the main thoroughfares with their close-packed carts and stalls in favor of less-populated alleys and half-remembered shortcuts. Despite new construction and misremembered turns, I still made faster progress than I would have trying to fight my way through those clotted avenues that make up Absalom's primary arteries. At last, one of my alleys broke out onto a wide cobblestone plaza, the thick press of shops clearing away and allowing in a swath of blue, cloudless southern sky. And below it, the shining walls of the Grand Lodge, eternal seat of the Pathfinder Society.

Beneath a stone arch prominently displaying the Glyph of the Open Road, twin gates stood open and guarded by armored young men with halberds—probably initiate Pathfinders. Though most of the traffic through the plaza continued past the massive complex without slowing, a steady trickle of men and women entered and exited through the gates. Hitching up my bag, I moved forward through the press and joined them.

"Greetings," the guardsman said when it was my turn. "Name?"

"Eando Kline, Pathfinder."

"The Grand Lodge welcomes you, brother." The guard stuck out his arm politely, and we clasped wrists. "May you find what you seek, and your stories be told." Taking a bit of ribbon, he bound my sword to my sheath.

"Thank you," I said, but he was already turning to the next man in line. Self-consciously tugging at the hilt of my sword, I moved on into the picturesque gardens and walkways of the compound.

The bit of ribbon would snap with ease, of course, but that wasn't the point. It had been a long time since I'd had any of my weapons peace-bonded. I wasn't sure I liked it.

Inside the walls, the Grand Lodge rolled out before me in all its elegance. Dead ahead rose the five-towered palace of Skyreach, a spired fortress of white stone high enough to be visible from miles away. Beyond it, six smaller fortresses of varying architectural styles studded the manicured groves and pristine squares, connected via white-paved paths big enough for a cart. To the east and west sat numerous conventional buildings of wood and brick: dormitories for visiting Pathfinders, workshops, smithies, and all the other necessities that kept the lodge running. And of course, farthest from the gate and sheltered by the towering walls, the doorless lump of the Repository squatted, its walls housing the sixty-six tongueless and enchanted criminals who transcribe chosen reports to create each volume of the Chronicles.

Like most of those entering, I proceeded directly to the front gates of Skyreach, passing up its marble steps and into the vast hallways. Strange that after all this time it should still feel so familiar. Doors and stairways to either side led off to sections that I had never been invited to see. In truth, I doubted if there were any outside of the Decemvirate who had been in every room of the Grand Lodge. Exploration, as initiates young and old had whipped into them early on in their training, was something best left for outside the lodge.

Yet those places I've been I remember well, and soon I turned a corner and entered the carpeted expanse of the Den, one of the many combination lounges and libraries where Pathfinders meet to drink, study, and mingle with their compatriots. As a young man I had spent hours here, attaching myself to grizzled adventurers for as long as they would continue talking, soaking up every fact and half-truth from their journeys. Just as I remembered, the room was half-full of Pathfinders relaxing in knots of quiet conversation centered on tables and couches. Yet I had eyes for only one.

"Belzig."

My voice was over-loud, and several heads turned toward me. I ignored them and stalked across the room toward where the oily-haired fop stood drinking wine with a number of companions. He smiled and gestured with his glass, his cohorts making way for me.

"Ah, Eando!" he cried, full of genuine good humor. "I wondered how far behind me you were. Apparently only a few hours. Delightful!"

I said nothing, only tightened my grip on my sword. Belzig glanced down at it pointedly and smiled wider.

"Tough journey, eh? I can't say I'm surprised—I had a devil of a time myself. I was just telling my friends here about my near-conversion in Razmiran." He waved to indicate the others, two men and a woman.

"Garud, Eryk, Chlora—allow me to introduce you to Eando Kline. He and I go back a long way, and ran into each other several times during the course of my most recent discovery—but then, you'll read all about that once it's published." The group murmured polite greetings.

Durvin Gest, the most famous Pathfinder.

"Your discovery?" With all my strength I managed to unwrap my fingers from my sword.

"But of course! I'm happy to say that my latest gamble has paid off handsomely—I've been invited to present it to the Decemvirate itself shortly. Needless to say, I'm honored." He tipped his glass toward me. "And you? I know your last effort met with poor results, but didn't you have another in mind? Something about being a scribe for the orc lord in Urgir?"

It was time for me to leave—had been, since the moment I entered. Ignoring the curious stares of our audience, I turned and left without saying a word.

The next few hours passed in a blur, and darkness found me sitting alone on a bed in a private room in the East Dormitory, fiddling with a dagger and unable to make myself light a candle or put pen to paper. Somehow, recording my every thought didn't seem quite so important just then. Finally, long after the rest of the building had quieted down, I judged it dark enough and repacked everything except my dagger. That I slipped into my belt, then threw open the window. Outside, night had muffled the city's bustle. Thankful that this side of the dormitory was away from the lantern-lit walkways, I slipped out the window and found a grip on the overhanging eaves.

The information I needed had been laughably easy to obtain—just wait for a change of staff, then pretend to have drunkenly forgotten which room I was in. All that was left now was the silent shimmy along the side of the building, pressing myself tight against the weathered brick. Booted toes sought purchase in the mortared spaces and found it, barely. Fingers locked into claws drew me sideways across the face of the building, trying not to acknowledge the ground three stories below, until I came to the darkened window I wanted. To my surprise, it was cracked open. Crouched on the sill, I slowly lifted the sash, then pulled myself inside.

The room was completely dark, lit only by the window behind me. On the far side, against the wall, the modest bed held a familiar shape, its breathing slow and deep. I stood motionless, listening, until I was sure that he was asleep. Then I moved quickly forward and drew my dagger.

I wish I could say that my hand wavered, that I found myself choking on the idea of murdering a man in cold blood while he slept. But I can't. The dagger rose.

"I wouldn't do that."

I jumped. Eyes still closed, Belzig smirked.

"Really, Eando, did you think I'd make it that easy? Just kill me and all your problems will go away?" His eyes opened and he sat up, shoving my knife away.

"At this moment, my notes are in vaults belonging to the Decemvirate, along with a letter stating that if anything happens to me, it is undoubtedly the work of Eando Kline, a failed Pathfinder driven mad by jealousy." He pulled open his shirt to reveal a hairy chest. "So go for it, Eando. Take your shot. You'll be a wanted man, disgraced to the only organization that cares about you, and the knowledge you so desperately want to cover up will get published anyway."

"You're forgetting one thing," I said.

"What?"

"It would feel really good."

I met his eyes and held them. If I take any pride in that memory, it's that, for just one moment, his smile faltered. For a single second, he feared he'd misjudged me, and that now he was alone and unarmed in a room with a lunatic.

Then his composure returned. "Get out of my room, Kline."

I left through the front door.

Dawn came, and I watched it rise from the high stone pediment of a statue. I was more than a little hung over. Flat on my back, I peered up from between the legs of Durvin Gest, greatest of the Pathfinders. Only the servants were up and about at this hour, preparing meals and maintaining the dew-lined hedges and trees. Several passed by and regarded me with quiet disgust. I agreed with them. Above me, Durvin met the new day with the quiet, self-satisfied confidence I'd worn so frequently myself. I put my arm over my eyes to protect them from the burgeoning light and let the cool stone leach the heat from my body.

"Well, isn't this a fine portrait of a Pathfinder."

The woman staring up at me from the foot of the pedestal was roughly my age, with straight black hair and no-nonsense traveling clothes draped over a body built for speed. The delicate nose was slightly raised, giving her a pugnacious look. Her arms were crossed.

"Shevala."

"Gods, it is you." My venture-captain practically spit. "What the hell happened?"

My addled brain struggled to answer, but nothing I could come up with seemed sufficient, and instead I lay there on my stomach, peering over the edge at her.

She sighed. "Come on, then," she said, climbing up on one of the stone angels ringing the statue's base and getting a grip on my shirt. "Let's get you out of here." She heaved, and I was barely able to get my feet below me before I hit the ground.

Some time later we sat in a dingy bistro, thick stew and over-salted bread stealing the wine's fog from my brain.

"So," she said when I had finished scraping the bowl with my crusts. "Talk."

I talked. With Belzig's information already in the Decemvirate's hands, secrecy didn't matter anymore, and in any case I had been alone too long. I poured out my story in every miserable detail, from the moment she'd dispatched me to retrieve Dakar's ioun stone in Kaer Maga to my frantic race with Belzig across Avistan. I told her of the serpent city, my fears of what would happen once its location were released. Of my aborted attempts at murder to keep it hidden. Most of all I told her of the people I'd left to die, friend and foe alike—all in the name of the Pathfinders.

"Sounds like you did what you had to," she said noncommittally.

"But for what? To become famous? To get my godsdamned journal published?" My hands shook. "Here I've come up with the greatest discovery of the age, and I wish I'd never left Magnimar. I've done things—become things—I never wanted, all to find out what waited at the end of the road. And this is it." I gestured at the empty bowl.

"There's still time to submit your journal to the Decemvirate. It'll be your word against Belzig's, and your version undoubtedly holds up better."

"That's not the point anymore." I gestured wildly. "I don't want any of it published. And that's just it: I've spent the better part of my life devoted to the idea that information—all of it—should be free. That by unveiling the hidden, we're bettering the world. And now I know that we're not." I ran a hand through my greasy hair and clenched, tugging hard on it.

"And if I don't believe that anymore, then—who am I?"

Shevala reached over and pulled my hand from my hair, a surprisingly intimate gesture.

"Look, Kline," she said, voice soft. "Even Durvin Gest didn't give up all his secrets to the Society. Only fools like Belzig think that's all there is. I trained you better than that."

She stood up abruptly and threw down a few coins for my meal, suddenly all business again. "So clean up, quit feeling sorry for yourself, and get ready."

"Ready for what?" I asked, but she had disappeared out the door.

That afternoon I received my summons from the Decemvirate.

The Hall of Inquiry was every bit as intimidating as it sounded. For the first time in my life, one of the quiet servitors in Skyreach led me past the Den, past the Great Hall used for rare assemblies and lectures, and up the many staircases of one of the great towers. Most of the corridors were deserted, and those few Pathfinders or servants we passed moved quickly and confidently past doors which varied wildly, from elaborate portals covered in glyphs to iron-banded slabs more appropriate for a bank vault—or a prison. At last we passed through an ornate archway and into the hall itself, an imposing chamber taking up most of the tower's crown.

Belzig was already there, standing casually with hands folded behind his back. He inclined his head in a mocking salute. Before him rose a high stone dais that took up half the chamber, its shape a horseshoe opening toward us. No banners or tapestries adorned the walls—other than the dais itself, there was no furniture in the room whatsoever. Just the bare stone floors, the high-arched ceiling with its scrollwork buttresses, and tall windows that flared with light.

The servant directed me to the middle of the room, a spot roughly even with Belzig, then stepped back to join another beside the entrance. As he moved, I caught the flash of a blade up one voluminous sleeve. The Decemvirate took no chances.

"Nice of you to attend my ceremony," Belzig said.

My reply was short and anatomically improbable.

Before things could go any further, the deep tolling of a bell close by sent both of the servants snapping to attention. At the far end of the room, a door opened and ten figures moved through in a solemn line, taking up positions behind the dais, whose purpose I now understood. From a platform behind the long podium they loomed over us, staring down like gods prepared to pass judgment.

And they were impressive. Male and female, young and old, their identities were obscured completely by the elaborate masks they wore, each as unique as the many architectural styles of the Grand Lodge. One man wore a domino mask of pure black studded with glowing crystal tears, others more intricate affairs that terminated in the horns of stags or rams. One bore a strange whorled black mesh that wrapped his entire head like a tangle of briars, and another had no eyeholes at all. Of the women, one's face was screened by magically flowing water, and another bore spreading branches like a winter snag. In the center, a figure whose gender I couldn't determine was dressed entirely in white, its face obscured by a featureless veil. Some wore the practical clothing of warriors or travelers, others robes and dresses to shame the courts of Taldor. All watched us with level, impassive stares.

"The Decemvirate recognizes Arnois Belzig and Eando Kline, Pathfinders." It was the woman masked by the branching spikes. "We have already reviewed Belzig's writings, and have found his discovery of the serpent city more than worthy of publication in the Chronicles. Yet it has come to our attention that you, Kline, were also involved in the discovery, and have different information."

"You may state your version of the events."

I wonder if even the Decemvirate's members know each other's identities?

I did so, starting with my assignment in Magnimar and holding nothing back. As with Shevala, the simple act of revealing the information caused a weight that I hadn't known I was carrying to lift from my shoulders, my body growing lighter and straighter as I confessed every act, noble or otherwise, before this blank-faced council. When finally I finished, Belzig twitching impatiently at my side, I was flying. For better or worse, I had fulfilled my mission.

There was a long pause as the Decemvirate digested my story, then the man whose mask resembled a horned ram's skull spoke.

"Your account is impressive, Kline. Yet it is imperative that we confer further before any decisions are made." He turned toward his companions and waved one hand negligently.

All sound in the room vanished. Not even my own breathing registered, my bones refusing to conduct vibrations. Next to me, Belzig's stricken expression showed that he hadn't been spared. Before us, the council conversed freely, their lips moving in no language that I recognized.

It made sense—why bother to sequester themselves before issuing their verdict, when they could simply deafen their audience? I was impressed by the casual display of power, if not necessarily their regard for their fellow Pathfinders.

Finally the spell lifted, the tiny sounds of the room rushing back in a thunderclap, and the council sat stoically observing us. Once more, the woman with the branching headdress addressed us.

"The council has heard your words, Kline, and read those that Belzig has presented, and found them to be of equal merit. While we find your constant conflict at odds with the Pathfinders' code, the lack of permanent harm has convinced us to overlook your behavior. As such, if you desire it, both of your findings shall be published concurrently." Belzig's smile was small and forced, but he bowed his head in acknowledgment.

I didn't. "While I'm honored, lords, I think you've missed the point."

None of the Decemvirate shifted, yet the ensuing silence spoke volumes. I pressed on.

"With all due respect, I'm not sure anyone who hasn't been in the city can appreciate what we've uncovered here. These beings are incredibly powerful. I know—I've felt one of them inside my brain, felt the ease with which it controlled me completely. Only by sheerest luck was I able to break out of its power, and that was just one of them."

"Your graces, they want us to come down there. They've been waiting for thousands of years for us to mature to the point where we're strong enough to be decent servants. If word gets out about the city, we won't be able to stop the treasure-hunters, or even our own scholars, from flocking to it. And once this genie is released, we won't be able to bottle it again.

"Let this discovery pass us by. Record it and relegate it to the darkest part of the Vaults, some unused corner of the Repository. Just don't let it leave this lodge."

I paused. "Please."

Again, the silence following my words was almost as complete as the spell.

"You are bold, Kline," said the man with the ram horns. "A fine quality in a Pathfinder. Yet you presume overmuch."

"Yes," echoed the one in the crying mask, his razor-edged voice high and light. "Perhaps you were overcome by the serpent man, but surely even you don't believe yourself the most capable of our agents? Besides, those who come after will have your information to work with. They will go prepared, and I daresay will find more success than you did."

"But—"

"That will be all, Kline." The voice of the branch-masked woman was coated in ice. "You may publish your findings or not, as you wish, but it is not the place of a Pathfinder to advise the Decemvirate."

Deep inside me, something broke loose.

"Fair enough," I said, and reached into my pocket. Behind me I could hear the guards suddenly shift, too late to stop me as I grabbed and thrust, lobbing underhand.

Before me, my wayfinder clinked and slid to a stop on the stone floor.

"Guess that doesn't apply to me anymore."

I turned and walked toward the door.

"Eando."

The woman's voice. I stopped.

"The Decemvirate understands your disappointment, and will grant you time to rethink your rash decision. But you bear something that is not yours."

The guards moved to block the doorway, hands concealed beneath their sleeves. I faced the council.

"The ioun stone, Eando. You acquired it on official Society business, and that makes it Society property. It will be useful in guiding future scholars back to the city. Besides which, it's an important artifact—far too important for one man, Pathfinder or not." She held out a hand.

"Come, Eando. You can still do this honorably."

I stared at that open hand, weathered and worn, and wondered at the swords or bows it had once held—perhaps still held. Who were these men and women, to walk among us so secretly powerful? How did they develop such arrogant confidence, the hubris to direct the lives of thousands?

If I were in their position, would I be any different?

Slowly, I walked forward and stooped to retrieve my wayfinder, the magic compass still as bright as the day I received it. Once again I dug into my pocket, and this time withdrew a brilliant emerald stone, socketing it into place. The needle continued to point due north—back up the Sellen the way we had come.

I looked down at it, then back at the Decemvirate woman. She smiled encouragingly.

I flipped the wayfinder sidearm over the dais, hitting her in the bodice, and she scrambled to catch it.

"You forget yourself, Kline!" she hissed, but I was already walking away.

"Maybe," I replied. "Or maybe I'm starting to remember."

This is my last entry. As such, I feel the need to get the details right.

The sun slanting through my window is soft and yellow, bathing me with heat and picking individual motes of dust out of the air. This pen has seen better days, broken and mended. Outside, the noise of the city is a blanket, enfolding and humbling me, reminding me that despite all my problems I am one of many—a tiny speck flung screaming through space and time. It is a comforting thought. Next to my journal, the ioun stone floats gently in the air.

By the time the Decemvirate realizes that the stone in my wayfinder is a fake, one of the unspent gems plucked from the snake man's crypt, I'll be days ahead, maybe weeks. I don't expect them to give up, especially not when they still have Belzig's notes, but that'll give me plenty of time to get north and purchase the supplies I need. Nothing out of the ordinary for a simple prospector—just torches, rope, and those alchemical concoctions the miners use for blasting. Lots of them.

If Belzig remembers which tunnels he came through to escape the city, then it's up to me to make sure those tunnels aren't there anymore.

Ever since I was a child, I've believed that the greatest thing a man can do is seek knowledge. But now that I'm here, I think perhaps gaining knowledge is not nearly so important as what is done with it. I'm leaving this journal to you, Shevala, because I think you of all people might understand. Maybe years from now you'll decide it makes a good yarn and distribute it yourself. Maybe you'll shelve it and never touch it again. It doesn't matter so much to me. But if you ever do publish these, please sign me just:

Eando Kline,

Adventurer

About the Author

By James L. Sutter and James Jacobs

Little is known about the early life of Eando Kline. While his light skin and native tongue mark him as a child of Avistan, possibly Taldan or Andoran, even companions of long standing rarely get more than a few words out of him on the subject of his origins. Occasional references to a wayward youth, however, combined with a certain practiced affinity for petty theft and lock picking plus charitable tendencies toward orphans, suggest that Eando may have spent his formative years as a street urchin himself. Certainly no one has ever heard him mention a family.

As far as he's concerned, Kline's story begins at the age of 15, when he arrived penniless and travel-stained at the gate of Absalom's Grand Lodge, demanding politely but firmly to be inducted into the Pathfinder Society. Impressed by both the boy's spirit and the great distances which he had obviously traversed to be there, the Society quickly acceded to his wishes and accepted him as an initiate.

Eando's years being trained within the Grand Lodge were tumultuous at best. While none of his instructors could deny the fervor or skill with which he attacked his studies, his drive for knowledge and flagrant disregard for authority frequently landed him in hot water. Even as an adolescent, Eando had a tendency to view rules and laws as guidelines rather than absolutes, and his shameless explorations of the lodge's many off-limits areas and the cheerful, roguish manner in which he accepted his frequent punishments proved a constant source of exasperation for his superiors. Finally, after several years (and as many near-expulsions), Eando was raised to the status of a full Pathfinder and assigned to the jurisdiction of Shevala Iorae, a recently promoted venture-captain whose own legendary stubbornness and talent were hoped to be a match for the ambitious newcomer.

The pairing worked, and over the next decade Shevala became something of a mentor and confidant for the naturally independent Kline, sending him on expeditions all across the Inner Sea region. These missions met with moderate success, despite (or sometimes as a result of) Kline's tendency to leave a swath of accidental carnage in his wake.

In 4707 ar, after a particularly close call in Lastwall left Eando a wanted man in several townships—a simple misunderstanding, Eando insisted, involving questionable property rights and a milkmaid's virtue—Shevala assigned him to the newly established Pathfinder lodge in Magnimar, the first such base of operations on the Varisian frontier. Unsure if he was being punished or not, Eando went eagerly to this relatively unexplored region rife with ancient ruins and monuments from lost cultures. It was here that a simple attempt to recover a mysterious ioun stone brought him to the greatest discovery of his career—and the one that would eventually estrange him from the Society. While the nature of this revelation has not yet been confirmed officially, rumors hold that its implications were terrible enough that Eando went against both his training and his nature in order to plead with the Decemvirate not to release his findings. It's said that, when they refused to safeguard the knowledge, he threw down his wayfinder and resigned from the Society, immediately disappearing from the city of Absalom and taking the strange ioun stone with him. If Shevala or anyone else knows where to find him, they have remained quiet thus far, but the venture-captain has hinted repeatedly that she agrees with Eando's decision, and that she suspects the Society—and the Decemvirate—hasn't seen the last of him.

Eando embodies the spirit of the lone Pathfinder, constantly placing himself in exotic and dangerous situations in pursuit of the thrill of discovery. While personable and persuasive—and perhaps not as self-reliant as he likes to think—Eando is at heart a loner, with few real friends and no true home but the pack on his back. Part of this is undoubtedly due to his nature: a rough-and-tumble firebrand who has no problem overlooking society's conventions if they don't mesh with his own needs or sense of honor. Yet what demons might lurk behind the cocky demeanor and drive him to so often sacrifice both his own happiness and that of others in favor of obscure knowledge and adventure is a mystery even Eando has yet to solve.

Appearance

Eando is a reasonably attractive man in his late twenties, though most of his appeal comes from his aura of mystery and ever-present smirk rather than any especially handsome features. He stands almost 6 feet tall and is of average build, though his lack of bulk belies lithe and ropy muscles which make him both faster and stronger than his opponents expect. A veteran of numerous brawls and close calls, Eando's limbs bear copious scars from old injuries, and an especially noticeable gash running down the outside of his left eye adds to his charm more than it detracts.

Eando generally dresses in practical traveling clothes, along with a few bits of leather armor which still allow him to move freely. His skin is naturally light but constantly tanned a rich brown from traveling, and his hair and short beard is dark brown bordering on black. His cocky charm and casual air, combined with a talent for oratory and perhaps subconscious bardic abilities, tend to make people want to like him—often despite their better judgment.

Development

Eando can be used in a number of ways, depending on what stage of his career he's at when PCs encounter him. As a working Pathfinder, he's a convenient source of adventure hooks or obscure knowledge, perhaps recruiting the PCs to help him with a mission, accompanying them on an adventure for his own secret ends, or even working against them to claim an artifact of historical significance for the Society before the PCs can reach it.

After his resignation from the Pathfinder Society, Eando is still useful as a plot device. He might try to convince the PCs to assist him in defying the Society or subverting a given member, or even seek to enlist them in a splintered version of the Society that refuses to recognize the Decemvirate. Perhaps the PCs are tasked with hunting him down and stopping him at any cost before he can rebury the great secret which inspired him to cut ties with the Pathfinders. For PCs familiar with his story, they might simply encounter him posing as a run-of-the-mill NPC, only piecing together his true identity after he has disappeared once again.

Eando Kline CR 11

Male human bard 5/rogue 6/sorcerer 1

CG Medium humanoid

Init +3; Senses Perception +0

Defense

AC 20, touch 15, flat-footed 16

(+5 armor, +1 deflection, +3 Dex, +2 dodge)

hp 67 (12 HD; 11d8+1d6+12)

Fort +5, Ref +14, Will +8

Defensive Abilities evasion, trap sense +2, uncanny dodge

Offense

Spd 30 ft.

Melee +2 short sword +13/+8 (1d6+3/19–20) or

Ranged mwk dagger +11 (1d4+1/19–20)

Special Attacks bardic performance 15 rounds/day (countersong, distraction, fascinate, inspire competence +2, inspire courage +2), sneak attack +3d6

Bloodline Spell-like Abilities (CL 1st; concentration +4)

6/day—touch of destiny (+1)

Bard Spells Known (CL 5th; concentration +8)

2nd (3/day)—delay poison, glitterdust (DC 15), shatter (DC 15)

1st (5/day)—comprehend languages, cure light wounds, feather fall, grease (DC 14)

0 (at will)—flare (DC 13), light, mage hand, mending, prestidigitation, resistance

Sorcerer Spells Known (CL 1st; concentration +4)

1st (4/day)—expeditious retreat, sleep (DC 14)

0 (at will)—acid splash, arcane mark, ghost sound (DC 13),
read magic

Bloodline Destined

Tactics

Before Combat Not normally a religious man, Eando has recently taken to whispering quick prayers to Desna before fights. Treat these as bardic music inspiring competence or courage in himself using Perform (oratory). On those rare occasions when he sees a fight coming in advance,
he generally hides and prepares to ambush his foe with a sneak attack.

During Combat Eando doesn't fight unless he has to, preferring to sneak, run, or talk his way out of any conflicts, but if cornered, he prefers to take the first swing—often literally. Rather than waste time drawing a sword, he generally chooses to go for a disabling kick to the knee or a quick and surprising blow to the face or throat, hoping to drop a foe with a well-placed nonlethal sneak attack and end things early. Though he's a competent spellcaster, a lifetime of hard knocks has taught Eando to rely first and foremost on his physical reflexes, and he tends to save his spells for emergencies.

Morale Eando is no fool, and attempts to escape combat if reduced below 10 hit points, provided his allies are able to do the same. Haunted by the death of the adventurer Sascha Antif-Arah, one of his few true friends, Eando fights to the last to defend those he truly cares about.

Statistics

Str 12, Dex 16, Con 10, Int 13, Wis 10, Cha 16

Base Atk +7; CMB +8; CMD 23

Feats Dodge, Eschew Materials, Great Fortitude, Improved Unarmed Strike, Leadership, Lightning Reflexes, Toughness, Weapon Finesse, Weapon Focus (short sword)

Skills Bluff +16, Climb +10, Disable Device +16, Disguise +10, Knowledge (dungeoneering) +12, Knowledge (geography) +12, Knowledge (history) +12, Knowledge (local) +12, Knowledge (nature) +12, Linguistics +7, Perform (oratory) +16, Ride +12, Sleight of Hand +16, Stealth +18, Survival +3, Use Magic Device +12

Languages Aklo, Common, Orc, Shoanti, Varisian

SQ bardic knowledge +2, bloodline arcana, lore master 1/day, rogue talents (finesse rogue, resiliency, trap spotter), trapfinding +3, versatile performance (oratory)

Gear elixir of hiding, elixir of swimming, scroll of fireball; Other gear +3 leather armor, +2 short sword, masterwork daggers (2), mysterious ioun stone, ring of protection +1, backpack, journal, numerous belt pouches, writing supplies

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Open Game License v 1.0a © 2000, Wizards of the Coast, Inc.

System Reference Document. © 2000. Wizards of the Coast, Inc; Authors: Jonathan Tweet, Monte Cook, Skip Williams, based on material by E. Gary Gygax and Dave Arneson.

The Compass Stone: The Collected Journals of Eando Kline. © 2011, Paizo Publishing, LLC; Authors: Jason Bulmahn, James Jacobs, Michael Kortes, Mike McArtor, Erik Mona, Richard Pett, Amber Scott, James L. Sutter, Jay Thompson, and Greg A. Vaughan.