CITY OF MONUMENTS
“So let me get this straight,” Hemlock said, leaning forward and resting his arms on his desk. “Aldern Foxglove was the murderer, this so-called Skinsaw Man, but he’d been turned into some sort of ghoul after he dug up a hidden stairway in his basement.”
Wesh nodded.
“And it turns out that his wife didn’t really go to Absalom,” Hemlock continued, “but that instead, he murdered her too. All that I can deal with, I suppose, but now you’re telling me that this whole affair might somehow be connected to Nualia Tobyn as well?”
“Not directly,” Luther answered, “but there are certainly some related elements, namely the Sihedron Rune, and perhaps the Skinsaw Men.”
“And who are they again?” Hemlock asked.
“Professional assassins,” Luther replied. “They work out of Magnimar, apparently. Nualia hired them to hunt down and kill the father of her child. We suspect this Brotherhood mentioned in the letter may be the same organization, and their use of the same Thassilonian rune we found at Thistletop creates many more questions…ones we may find the answer to in Magnimar.”
“Magnimar’s outside our jurisdiction,” Hemlock said. “And don’t forget, when I went there looking for help with our goblin problem, I wasn’t exactly given a warm welcome. If you go, you won’t have any legal authority to back you up.”
“We understand that,” Wesh interjected, “but with any luck, we’ll be able to dig up enough concrete evidence against the assassins so that the local government won’t have any choice but to take action.”
Hemlock shrugged. “Well, you have my blessing and my best wishes. Sounds like you’re gonna need all the luck you can get. Now, about Foxglove Manor…you say you think it might still be haunted?”
“There’s something there,” Wesh replied. “Something that’s been there a lot longer than Aldern Foxglove. Something evil.”
“Well, I’ll take a patrol out there tomorrow,” Hemlock stated. “We’ll go through the place with a fine-tooth comb, and when we’re done, we’ll burn the place to the ground.”
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The journey along the Lost Coast Road to Magnimar was not a particularly dangerous one. After all, the route was a major trade passage and was reasonably well patrolled, but it still took the Sandpoint Seven the better part of a week on horseback and pulling a supply wagon, to make the trip. The City of Monuments, as Magnimar was known, was the second largest city in Varisia, and it waged an open war of coins and lies with its rival to the east, Korvosa. Both city states vied for control over vassal communities, natural resources, and trade with the more cosmopolitan south. The rivalry stretched back to a time even before Magnimar’s founding, as droves of Korvosan dissenters, unwilling to blindly kowtow to foreign despots after the fall of the Chelaxian Empire, departed for the Lost Coast. Ever since, Magnimar had welcomed those who would shape their own fates by the sweat of their brows and the keenness of their wits, regardless of race or beliefs. To that end, the city opened its gates and harbor to all comers, encouraging traders from many lands to discover the wonders of Varisia away from the excessive taxes and regulations of Korvosa, yet in greater safety than that offered by pirate havens like Riddleport. Currently, more than 16,000 people made their homes in Magnimar, with the majority of the population consisting of humans of Chelish descent, but also boasting the largest semi-settled population of Varisians in the world.
Magnimar was built in the shadows of megaliths, remnants of ancient Thassilon. Two such architectural marvels dominated the landscape: the ancient Irespan, and the modern Arvensoar. The former was a broken fragment of an enormous basalt bridge that was visible for miles out to sea. Over three-hundred feet high, it completely eclipsed one large neighborhood of the city, giving it the name the Shadow. The latter monument was the tallest structure in Magnimar, standing approximately four-hundred feet, and climbing the entire length of the Seacleft, the great cliff which separated the prosperous Summit district from the more working-class Shore. The great tower itself was garrison for the city’s watch and small military, but it was also a symbol of the city’s unity, ambition and history.
When the seven companions rode into the great city, for three of them at least, it was a homecoming. Both Dexter and Luther had been born in Magnimar, though under very different circumstances, and Skud had adopted the city as his home when he’d first come there out of the wilderness and been accepted despite his mixed heritage. They took pride in pointing out various landmarks to their companions as they threaded their way through town towards the Bazaar of Sails, the largest free market in Varisia. The adventurers had amassed a fair amount of loot in their travels, and Sandpoint’s economy was far too limited to sell most of it, so their first stop before searching out Foxglove’s townhouse was the Bazaar. It didn’t take very long among the merchants and tradesmen before the group began hearing disturbing, and somewhat familiar rumors: a spate of murders had been plaguing the city of late. Stories of merchants, politicians, crooked guards, and moneylenders showing up dead, their bodies mutilated, faces missing and chests carved with seven-pointed stars, seemed to be on everyone’s lips. The deputies knew their hunch had been right, and something more than mere chance had brought them there.
They had no trouble discovering where Aldern Foxglove lived. A few well-placed coins revealed that he owned a townhouse in the Grand Arch District upon the Summit. When they reached the small, three-story building, its façade facing a small courtyard in which stood a fountain of four pools, each fed by a long-necked, iron wyvern’s head, they found all of the windows on the ground floor, as well as the back door, boarded up from the outside. Dexter discovered that one of the key’s he’d taken off Aldern’s body fit the front door, however, and they let themselves quickly inside before nosey neighbors could begin to pry. Just inside, they found themselves in a small entry way with stairs leading up to the second story, as well as a door off one side. Oddly, dried mud covered the floor. The door gave onto a trophy hall, but all of the trophies, primarily elk, boar and bear, had been ripped from the walls and lay scattered on the floor. Someone had been in the house, and quite recently from the look of things. Beyond the hall was a cozy dining room, with a small covered kitchen overlooking an overgrown garden. No sooner had they entered the room, than a voice called out from a closed door on the opposite side.
“Hello? Is someone there? We’re in the parlor!”
The voice was unmistakably that of Aldern Foxglove.
Skud began to growl low in his throat, and he threw open the far door. Inside was a study, just as ransacked as the other rooms they’d seen. Another door stood closed in the opposite wall, and the big half-orc made a beeline for it.
“Skud, wait!” Luther called, hurrying after.
With a snarl, the barbarian slammed the second door open, revealing a parlor. The comfortable-looking chairs and sofa had been slashed to ribbons, yet four people were gathered there. The two who were sitting were dressed in the casual finery of the minor nobility, while behind them stood a butler and maid. The seated couple was Aldern and Iesha.
“My friends?” Aldern said disbelievingly as he rose from his chair. “What an unexpected surprise! You’ll forgive our rude dress,” he gestured to a sword he had belted around his waist. The deputies could see that Iesha, and even the servants, were similarly armed. “As you can see, we’ve recently been the victims of vandals. We thought you might be them returning. To what do I owe the pleasure? I so wish I’d known you were coming!”
Before Luther could answer, Skud bellowed in rage and flung the slightly-built priest aside, reaching for his sword as he moved.
“I see you’re not as stupid as you look,” Aldern said in a bubbly voice, and as he spoke, his form, and that of his companions, began to change. Within moments, they had been replaced by things of skin and dislocation and horror. They were featureless humanoid shapes with hairless, scaly flesh like dark, crimson snakes, their long, stretching fingers twitching and writhing. Their forms were horrifically human, and yet at the same time frightfully pliant, evident when their boneless arms stretched out unnaturally, grasping for what should have been out of reach.
As Skud charged in, the nearest creature stretched its gangly arms towards him, slashing viciously with the sword it still held. Dexter and Adso followed quickly behind their comrade, both acrobats rolling and tumbling to try and position themselves behind their opponents. Unfortunately, the shapeshifters were faster than their awkward forms appeared, and their rubbery arms swatted the rogue and monk away like flies, sending them slamming into nearby walls. By that point, however, Skud had managed to close the gap, and Randall was right on his heels. The two warriors hammered into the foremost of the shifters in titanic unison, sending it reeling from the impact. As it staggered to regain its balance, a flurry of Wesh’s mystic bolts put it down for good.
Dex bounded to his feet and darted forward again, dodging past the flailing limbs that swung at him. He went in low, his dagger slashing across the hamstring of one of the creatures and sending it crashing to the floor. As it levered itself onto one knee, Skud met it, plunging his blade through its chest. The remaining two creatures began to back towards one corner, their swords held protectively before them. Their breath came in ragged gasps, and they looked about for a means of escape, but found only boarded up windows. Adso had also regained his feet, and he, Dex, Skud and Randall advanced on the pair. In a frenzied panic, the creature’s hacked and slashed, and though the deputies suffered a few minor cuts, they gave worse than they received, and in short order all four of the monsters lay dead.
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A thorough search of the remainder of the townhouse only revealed more signs of some person or persons having done a desperate search. Room after room lay in ruins, but in the master bedroom, Dexter paused in his rummaging as something about the fireplace caught his eye. The mantel was decorated with two roaring lion heads, one at either end. They looked familiar to the rogue, and after a moment, he had it…the second key he’d taken off Aldern. The head of it bore the same image of a roaring lion. Quickly, Dex moved to the mantle, and when he looked inside the mouth of one of the carvings, he saw a small keyhole within. He placed the key and turned it. When he did so, the opposite carving sprung open on a hidden hinge, revealing a small bag, a shallow wooden case, and a thin black ledger. The bag contained a number of platinum coins, a small fortune in fact. Inside the case were several legal documents pertaining to the townhouse, as well as the original deed to Foxglove Manor. Luther skimmed quickly over the latter, his brow wrinkling in confusion.
“Look at this,” he said, as he showed it to Wesh. “This indicates that Vorel Foxglove only financed two-thirds of the construction costs. The remainder was paid by a group called ‘the Brothers of the Seven.’ Furthermore, this clause at the end states that after one-hundred years, ownership of the manor, as well as the lands within one mile ‘around and below’ reverts back to the Brothers.”
“You think this is the same brotherhood referred to in that letter we found on Aldern?” the wizard asked.
“This would seem to bear that out,” Adso said, holding up the ledger. “Most of the entries here are pretty mundane, but there are several interesting ones near the end. It seems that over the past three months, Aldern made nearly a dozen payments of two-hundred gold crowns to someone called ‘B.7’ for ‘Iesha’s Trip to Absalom.’ It states that he dropped off these payments every Oathday at midnight at a place called ‘the Seven’s Sawmill.’”
“Iesha never made that trip to Absalom,” Luther said quietly.
“You’re from here,” Wesh said. “Do you know of such a mill?”
Luther shrugged. “Kyver’s Islet is where most of the mills are,” he said. “There are over a dozen of them. I’m not certain of their names.”
“Then I think we should make a point of finding out,” Wesh replied.
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The small island known as Kyver’s Islet sat at the mouth of the Yondabakari River, and was given over almost completely to lumber mills, shipwrights and other noisy workshops best situated away from homes and quieter businesses. On the northernmost point of the isle rose the Floodfire, a small lighthouse that warned ships away from the shallow waters and half-submerged sandbars of the river. As the Sandpoint deputies walked along the main thoroughfare, they were brought to a stunned halt before a rather nondescript mill.
“Well I’ll be hanged,” Randall said.
A large sign swung from the front of the building, proclaiming in bold letters, ‘The Seven’s Sawmill.’
“Don’t you just love it when the bad guys advertise?” Wesh chuckled.
What’s our approach strategy?” Luther asked.
From where they stood, the mill looked exactly like all the others nearby, and they occasionally saw deliverymen going around to the main riverside doors.
Wesh shrugged. “I’ve always found that the direct approach is best,” he said. “Adso, do you still have that medallion we took from Nualia?”
The monk nodded, fingering a length of chain around his neck that disappeared beneath the collar of his tunic.
“Take it out, “the wizard instructed. “Let’s see if we can’t stir up an ant hill.”
The group made their way down a flight of stairs to a smaller door at river level, but when Dex tried the knob, it was locked. Politely, Wesh rapped on the wood with his knuckles. A few moments passed, and the door was opened by a mill worker dressed in coveralls.
“Help you gentlemen?” he asked, eyeing the assortment of weapons and armor on display suspiciously.
“We’re looking for a group called the Brotherhood,” Wesh announced without preamble. “Or perhaps you’ve heard of the Skinsaw Men?”
The man’s face remained impassive.
“I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong place. This is a lumber mill, not a guildhall.”
Luther stepped up beside Wesh, and cleared his throat.
“We’re conducting an investigation regarding the recent murders,” he said. “We have reason to believe that there’s something amiss at your establishment here. Do you mind if we have a look around?”
The man looked dubious. “Do you have some sort of a warrant or something? It’s a dangerous place to be poking around in…lots of machinery and such.”
“We don’t have a warrant,” Adso said, fingering the Sihedron medallion. “We just want to make sure everything is safe.”
The worker hesitated a moment longer, then shrugged and stepped aside.
“Suit yourself, but mind where you walk. Wouldn’t want you to get pulled into any of the gears.”
The undermill was a place of mist and noise. Four immense waterwheels churned steadily in the northern part of the large room, while to the south, whirring belts of leather, gears, pulleys, and thick ropes spun and churned, using the eternal motion of the river below to power pistons that rumbled along the southern wall. A narrow catwalk ran around the perimeter of the room, and five additional workers were busy at various tasks there. None of them seemed to take much notice of the visitors, past a casual glance. Dexter, Adso and Rico began to fan out around the room, inspecting the various machinery as well as the workers. Luther remained near the door where he could keep an eye on everyone. As his friends continued their search, he began to notice that the workers were no longer tinkering with their tools, though they were making efforts to appear as if they were. Several of them coughed casually, and then one-by-one, Luther saw them bow their heads as if they were merely massaging their temples, but when they raised there faces again, each of them had donned some sort of mask. The hideous things resembled a patchwork, deformed face with one bulbous eye, a grimacing mouth of long teeth, and no noticeable nose. Slowly, each of the men rose to their feet, and as they did, they drew long, straight-edged razors from their sleeves.
“Watch out!” Luther shouted, but his voice was all but drowned out by the rumbling waterwheels. Adso hadn’t needed to hear him, however. The quick-eyed monk saw what the worker nearest him was doing, and he launched himself into the air, landing a powerful side kick to the man’s chest. As his assailant fell back, a second killer approached from behind, seeking to slash Adso’s Achilles’ tendon, but the wily half-orc was too quick for that. Dropping to the ground, he swung his leg in a full circle, sweeping the man’s legs from under him. Meanwhile, Dexter was not one to be caught flat-footed either. The rogue had expected an ambush of some kind, and when he saw Adso moving out of the corner of his eye, Dex had palmed his dagger. Now, as one of the assassins bobbed and weaved towards him, he let fly with the blade, impaling it in the man’s shoulder.
“Hit the deck!” Wesh suddenly cried.
“What are you doing?” Luther asked in alarm.
“A new trick I learned,” the wizard grinned like a schoolboy. “I’ve been waiting to try it!”
Weaving his hands in an intricate pattern, Wesh began to chant. A tiny, quite unimpressive, pea-sized ball of flame formed between his palms, but at his command, it shot forward into the middle of the room, where it detonated into a massive cloud of fire that engulfed most of the chamber. Three of the assassins were caught by the brunt of the blaze, badly scorched, though not killed outright, but even Randall, Skud and Luther bore singed eyebrows and smoldering clothing when the flames cleared.
“Wooden…building…,” Luther gasped.
Wesh shrugged, and looked around.
“It’s still standing, isn’t it?”
At that moment, however, Wesh went rigid, his eyes round with terror.
“Flee,” came the muffled voice of one of the killers from beneath his mask, and at his command, Wesh turned and did just that.
Adso’s second opponent struggled to his feet, but as he did so, the monk seized him by his coveralls and hurled him over the railing into the churning waterwheels. His cry was drowned out by the rush of water and machinery. He turned, looking for his other foe, only to find that the man had moved into the mashing gears that powered the waterwheels. The assassin raised one finger and beckoned to Skud.
“Come,” he intoned, and a look of blank obedience fell over the barbarian. Slack jawed, he lumbered into the murderous gears, but fortune apparently favored the weak-willed, for though Adso held his breath, waiting for his companion’s legs to be shredded to ribbons, Skud threaded a path through the twisted metal without a scratch. When he reached the assassin, his eyes suddenly cleared and he grabbed the man by his clothing, lifted him bodily into the air, and threw him into the machinery.
A moment later, Wesh’s own mind cleared, just as he was headed for the door. Angry at being manipulated by so base an enchantment, he turned and saw his tormentor slash viciously at Rico with his razor. Snarling the words to his spell, Wesh hurled arcane missiles at the man’s back, sending him sprawling to the floor. The wizard then unleashed a second volley at another of the Skinsaw Men, laying him out just as cleanly. Across the room, he saw Randall dispatch yet another, leaving only one of the assassins still standing. That one apparently thought discretion the better part of valor, as he bolted for the door. Unfortunately, Luther stood between him and escape, and as he raised his razor to savage his unarmed opponent, the priest cold-cocked the man with a wicked upper-cut, then made the sign of his god in the air as the murderer fell to the floor unconscious.
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“You think they know we’re here?” Wesh asked.
“Not likely,” Luther replied. “Even with you blowing up everything in sight, I think the noise down here covered it up. Still, if we’re going to maintain the element of surprise, I suggest we move quickly…and decisively.”
“We flushed them out once,” Wesh chuckled. “I think we can do it again.”
Skud grunted, and picked up one of the odd masks from the floor.
“Cutters like masks. See if they like me in one.”
He placed the mask over his face, turning his already fierce visage into something truly nightmarish. As he fixed the mask in place, his mind became filled with hideous whispers and images of murder and violence. He could smell the sweat of his comrades and sense their tension. He could hear the thundering beat of their hearts. When he looked at them, he could see the shimmering traceries of their circulatory systems pumping away beneath their skin. Skud found he liked the feeling….he liked it a lot.
When the deputies moved up to the main level of the mill, they found the entirety of the first floor consisted of a loading area. An opening in the ceiling into the floor above was filled with a tangle of ropes and slings for lowering timber. Nearby, a flight of stairs ascended to the next story. Two sturdy wagons sat to the south, next to a bank of machinery accessed by four low doors. The grinding and creaking of the machines filled the room. No one was present in the loading bay, so the group moved quickly for the stairs. They came out onto a landing with another set of stairs leading up, and a single door. Skud moved to the door and kicked it in unceremoniously. Beyond was what appeared to be a large storeroom filled with stacks of timber, firewood and other finished lumber products awaiting shipment. A network of pulleys on tracks covered the ceiling, ropes dangling here and there to aid in the shifting of inventory as needed. Machinery churned along the south wall, while nearby two chutes fitted with winches allowed lumber to be hauled up from the holding pools below. Four openings in the ceiling led to the upper floor; chutes extended through each of those from the log splitters in the room above. Beneath each opening was a collection bin. Eight men worked busily around the room, but when the door opened and they saw Skud standing there in his mask, each of them quickly pulled his own mask from concealment, as well as his war razor.
Skud roared, his bellow momentarily rising above the din of the machinery. From behind him, Adso and Dexter darted into the room. Dexter’s arm flickered and his dagger appeared as if by magic, protruding from the thigh of the nearest assassin. Without ever slowing his movement, he pierced another with the point of his rapier, the blade ventilating the man’s lung. Gasping and gurgling, he collapsed. Adso struck at another, the heel of his foot forcing the air from his opponent as it drove into his midsection. Then, a second roar filled the room. Skud glanced behind him and did a double-take. Rico stepped into the room, and as he did so, something bulged beneath his tunic. Suddenly, a pair of white-furred, razor-clawed arms burst from his side, and he howled in animalistic fury. His feral eyes fell upon one of the Skinsaw Men, and before the killer could react, the druid latched onto him, lifting from the floor and rending him savagely with his new appendages.
And so it went. The Skinsaw killers moved skillfully and well, but it became abundantly clear that they were creatures of stealth and cunning. They were not accustomed to prey who fought back. The Sandpoint Seven took them down, one after the other, with brutal efficiency. At one point, when no more than two were left standing, a thundering of footsteps sounded from the stairs leading to the next level, and another half-dozen assassins appeared, all wearing masks and wielding their wicked razors. The reinforcements didn’t help. More bodies joined their comrades, until finally, the last two bolted for the stairs and disappeared back up them.
“This place has two more levels,” Randall said, breathing hard.
“And I think the real Skinsaw Man has yet to reveal himself,” Wesh nodded. “If it’s killing and murder these fellows are after, then it’s time we gave them a taste of their own medicine.”
