The Pariahs Read online

The Pariahs by David Adams

  Copyright David Adams

  2015

  Two sellswords--a half-elf and a half-orc--find their war over before it even begins. But trouble is stirring on the home front, conflict which threatens more than just their lives.

  A novella set in Drathari, the world of Ren of Atikala. Part one of the The Pariahs series.

  Books by David Adams

  The Lacuna series (science fiction)

  Lacuna

  The Sands of Karathi

  The Spectre of Oblivion

  The Ashes of Humanity

  The Prelude to Eternity

  The Requiem of Steel (coming 2015)

  The Kobolds series (fantasy)

  Ren of Atikala

  The Scars of Northaven

  The Empire of Dust (coming 2015)

  Stories in the Kobolds universe

  The Pariahs

  The Pariahs: Freelands

  The Pariahs: Elfholme (coming soon)

  Sacrifice

  Stories in the Lacuna universe

  Magnet

  Magnet: Special Mission

  Magnet: Marauder

  Magnet: Scarecrow

  Magnet Saves Christmas

  Magnet: Ironheart (coming 2015)

  Faith

  Imperfect

  Other Books

  Insufficient

  Insurrection

  Injustice (coming 2015)

  Who Will Save Supergirl?

  Evelyn’s Locket

  The Pariahs

  A novella set in the world of Ren of Atikala

  Special thanks to Clara Barrs, for bringing Brea to life.

  PROLOGUE

  Kozog

  The Shadowlands

  One year before the destruction of Atikala

  and the events of Ren of Atikala

  THE ARMY OF THE OPEN Fist marched on Irondarrow Keep, thousands of booted feet pounding their way to reinforce the assault on the fortified dwarven stronghold. Druids and wizards handled the more serious threats; management of the rank and file was left in the hands of the junior members and sellswords.

  Sellswords such as Kozog the half-orc, and his battle comrade, Brea Fleethand the half-elf.

  Through blood, smoke, and the scoured ruin of the Shadowlands, he and the Open Fist had fought their way to a day’s journey away from Irondarrow’s gates. They faced fiends, cultists, and the stitched-together horrors wrought by dwarven hands. Kozog’s spear and Brea’s rapier had put down scores of foes during the journey, and now at the edge of the Shadowlands, with their tents unpacked, their equipment readied for the next day’s march, and all manner of preparations made, the two of them had earned a moment of quiet reflection beyond the edges of their camp.

  Tomorrow the real war would begin, but tonight was their own.

  “The Shadowlands has a subtle beauty to it,” said Kozog, folding his dark green hands behind his head as he lay on the ground, staring up at the night sky. The stars seemed to twinkle less in these lands, afraid that—should they draw attention to themselves—they too would be swallowed by the barren landscape and snuffed out forever. “I hadn’t really noticed it before now.”

  “I’m not surprised you hadn’t seen it,” said Brea as she played with a strand of her long brown hair, her eyes also searching for some light, some movement in the dark firmament of Drathari’s ceiling. “Our eyes were fixed on the ground.” She stretched, hair falling around her pointed elf ears. “I wouldn’t call it beauty. Foreboding, perhaps, but not beautiful.”

  Kozog felt another debate coming on and embraced the feeling. “Beauty is a very personal concept. The stars here do not shine; I see this as conformity. Order. Uniformity. Equality. Here there is a serene stillness where the turbulence of our existence comes to a graceful, aching halt. Nothing changes. Nothing moves. All is now as it will be forever. There’s a certain comfort in that.”

  “What good are the stars if they do not twinkle?”

  A simple question but difficult to answer. “They represent something powerful,” he said. “A puzzle, a riddle, and not one intended to be solved. The lights are the souls of this world. Some are bright, some dim, some eternal and some fleeting. Yet they all exist, with every one of them in their place, imperceptibility dancing to some tune us poor mortals cannot hear.”

  That drew an easy laugh from Brea. “Which one of us is the bard again?”

  He acknowledged this curious observation with a non-committal shrug. “All I know is that there is comfort in knowing one’s place in the universe, even if that means our light is less beautiful than it otherwise would have been. What say you, then, of the night sky?”

  Brea’s wisdom was at once deep and shallow to him; to him, her elven flightiness and detachment lead to lofty, impractical observations that had little to do with a grounding in reality, but he appreciated their perspective nevertheless.

  She considered, her eyes half open. “It is joy. Every light illuminates the world just a little bit; every soul is valuable, every one of us important. We must all shine as bright as we can, for as long as we can, and we have to work together; a lone light is bright, but when a cluster of stars come together, they can light up the sky. That is what we have to be; we must shine, be allowed to shine. To be free.”

  Kozog slid a hand into his tunic, finding the wooden five pointed star of Tyranus, running his fingernail along the familiar edges, keeping it tucked under his clothing. That God was long dead but Kozog’s devotion remained strong. “I see.”

  “I think I should keep my eyes skyward from now on.” Brea gestured around her. “Better than the ground below. These Shadowlands are a blight, and as their name might imply, a dark spot on the world; a scar where a terrible injury was inflicted on our planet. There’s no passion here. No life. Nothing grows here. No exports. No industry. No culture. Nothing is produced but misery, seeping out into its neighbours like pus. I would scour this place clean if I had the power.” She shuddered, truth seeped in every word. “When we leave, never do I wish to return.”

  “Our duty takes us places we would rather not go.” Kozog shifted his position, the cold ground uncomfortable. He would rather be at home in his warm bed, but nothing worth doing was easy. “Interesting how we can view the same scene and see different things.”

  Silence reigned for a time.

  “You know,” Brea said, “I sometimes think that if you stripped away the labels, took away our religious symbols and our allegiances…we are not so different.”

  She had said some strange things in their time together, but this one was the oddest in weeks. Kozog turned his head to look at her. “I do not think we could be more different, but explain.”

  “We see the same evils, more or less. We see the night sky with its silent stars, we see the dead land all around us, and we see that these things are bad. To take away the metaphor; we both see suffering in Drathari and know it is unjust. What we disagree on are the solutions.”

  “A charitable way of putting it.”

  Brea smiled, showing the dimples on her cheeks. “That is part of my philosophy. To celebrate those who would stand with me, and to drive a knife to those would stand against.” The dimples only showed up when she smiled so wide it must hurt.

  In times of war, she didn’t smile anywhere near enough.

  His laugh drifted across the unnatural stillness of the Shadowlands. “Perhaps we do have more in common than I thought.”

  Kozog prepared for more quiet, enjoying these moments of calm reflection, but a series of faint pops met his ears, a mocking echo of his laughter. He sat up on his elbows as figures advanced towards them, dark cloaks over their heads. Their leader, a thin, gaunt looking man with hollow eyes had a blade in his hand.

  �
�Strange that Freelanders would be so far from the body of their army,” the stranger hissed, revealing a tongue forked down the centre. “No matter. Their folly is our advantage.” He twisted his veiny neck and spoke over his shoulder. “Gut them both. Take their bodies back to Irondarrow.”

  So polite of their enemies to announce their intentions. Brea, somehow already standing, as though she could slide from lying on her back to a battle stance in a heartbeat—offered her hand. Kozog took it and stood with a groan, spear in hand.

  “There’s a lot of them,” said Kozog, sliding his hands along the wooden shaft of his weapon, readying against their approach. “Three to one. Hardly fair odds.”

  “Hardly fair to them.” Brea’s weapons slid into her hands as though they were extensions of her arms, her rapier and dagger held before her. “We slew a summoner a only a day ago. These must be remnants of her cult. Minions respect only strength; she was the greatest of them. These ones will fall handily.”

  Kozog picked out the details of the hooded men behind the tiefling leader, the damp cloth clinging to their forms, revealing the truth beneath. Horned human skeletons, emaciated and hunched, with sharp teeth and elongated claws.

  Babaus. Demons, slimy dwellers of the pits.

  “The odds may not be as strong as you imagine.” He tightened his grip as the demons broke into a run, howling as they ran towards the pair of Pathfinders. “The tiefling leads babaus.”

  A babau was a dangerous foe indeed. Three of them…well, they were in trouble. As Brea began to sing, there was a subtle tremor to her voice that belied her confident exterior.

  Kozog spoke a word of power, igniting the tip of his enchanted spear in smoke. The first of the demons charged headlong onto his weapon, suicidally so, impaling itself on the tip; it thrashed, clawing wildly at him, seemingly impervious to the hit. Kozog roared and shook the shaft; the babau impaled upon it struggled until it finally succumbed, slumping limp, black slime pouring all over Kozog’s hands. The creature's body liquified into ink.

  The odds were now better but his weapon was stuck. One babau leapt towards Brea, filthy claws outstretched, another leapt towards him; its slick leathery hide glistening in the moonlight.

  Kozog ducked, spear still lodged in the dripping body of the fiend. Dirty claws slashed across his chest, tearing into his skin, but Kozog barely felt it. He released his spear; the body of the slain demon fell forward, its weapon clattering to the ground. Kozog swung his fist, driving it against the babau’s face; the creature seemed to barely feel it, snapping at his hand with its razor sharp teeth.

  As Kozog gave ground, backing away to engage his enemy, Brea attacked hers.

  He loved watching her fight. Brea was not a fighter as much as she was a dancer. Every thrust and parry was a symphony of steps, perfectly placed motions endlessly honed through passion; her joy, her art, powered her and guided her, and it paid off. Her enemy collapsed as bloody flowers bloomed in the cracks of its thick hide, her blades finding the gaps, out-fighting the frenzied demon in a whirling blur of mithril and steel death.

  Kozog was much less subtle. He simply reached forward, ignoring a vicious slash across his shoulder, grabbing his longspear and tearing it free. With a roar he applied the tip of his weapon to the remaining babau’s face.

  The fallen bodies became liquid, and then evaporated. All that remained was the leader.

  “Impressive,” he said, his forked tongue writhing. “But I can always acquire more demons.”

  “Do feel free,” said Brea, her ichor-slick rapier extended. “These ones proved hardly a challenge.”

  She had been hurt as well—a tear in her tunic showed the metal chain links underneath it, stained a dark tan—but they were both still in the fight. Kozog levelled his weapon. As did Brea.

  “Blood and darkness,” the tiefling hissed, and suddenly the world was aflame.

  Kozog squinted, shielding his eyes from the bright light. They stood in a ring of fire. The tiefling strode into the flames unharmed.

  Definitely long odds. His cloak ignited and he shrugged it off. Brea’s was magically enchanted, but one look at her face and he knew.

  They were in trouble.

  Grimacing against the heat, Brea leapt away first, folding her arms to protect her hair. Kozog far less gracefully ploughed through the gap she left. The two of them collapsed on the other side, rolling around on the ground, extinguishing the flames that licked hungrily at their clothes, searching for flesh. The flames became smoke.

  The demon teleported directly over Kozog, and with supernatural speed and power, plunged its dagger down into his chest.

  That would have been the end of him, but Tyranus protected his faithful servants even in death. The blade’s edge struck Kozog’s holy symbol, hidden under his shirt, breaking it in half. The blade left a deep wound but his holy symbol had stolen enough of the dagger’s momentum to save it from piercing his heart. A green blood-flower blossomed on his chest.

  “Kozog!” Brea let her rapier lead, stabbing wildly at the foul creature.

  “I’m okay.” He swung out with his fist, slamming it into the tiefling’s temple. The fiend-blooded human howled, falling to the ground.

  Brea leapt upon him, dagger raised. The tiefling, eyes wide, spat a spell of power into her face.

  The mithril in her hand glowed a fiery red. Brea shrieked and tossed the weapon away.

  Kozog rolled over on top of the tiefling. The acrid scent of brimstone and blood filled the space between them; Kozog closed his hands over the demon-man’s throat and squeezed.

  The tiefling thrashed. Kicked. Squirmed. Whimpered. Gasped. Died.

  Kozog waited, giving the Dark Lady a few more seconds to fully take the soul as his strength faded.

  Victory.

  Then Kozog’s strong arms weakened, his blood seeped into the dead ground below, and he slumped over the body of the man who had tried to kill them both.

  CHAPTER I