by Daniel Heck
THE GATE TO THOMERION
AN INTERACTIVE NOVEL
By Daniel J. Heck
Copyright © 2018
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters herein to real people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
When you’re finished with this book, please review it on Amazon. The author welcomes all feedback.
The Gate to Thomerion is a continuation of the author’s first interactive novel, The Seal of Thomerion, also available via Amazon as an e-book or in print. Check it out!
Plus, read Daniel J. Heck’s author blog at:
http://www.theworldofthomerion.com
Big thanks and acknowledgements!
I extend my deepest appreciation to the following people for their critically important roles in making The Gate to Thomerion happen:
Matthew Ridout, for critique and unwavering friendship
Cory Skerry of Chanticleer Reviews, for powerful
developmental editing and critique
Michelle Herring, for motivation and undying love
Kay Herring, for line-editing and compassionate care
Richard and Mary Heck, for raising me and instilling in me creativity and a burning desire to succeed
Cover design by Andrei Bat, acquired via 99designs.com
World map generated by and downloaded from worldspinner.com
You may be wondering:
What is an ‘interactive novel?’
There isn’t just one story to this book. In The Gate to Thomerion, you control the characters’ actions by making decisions every so often. When you come to a question, such as What do you do next?, don’t just turn to the next page. Instead, turn to the page instructed, based on what you want to have happen next. When you reach an ending, simply start again. As you read, you’ll find that a quest unfolds, and overall, the book contains 29 possible endings that range in scope from utter defeat to glorious and complete victory!
That’s not all. Some pages may instruct you to write down a keyword, for which I suggest using separate pencil and paper. These words may help you down the road, as they have special meaning within the story. You can denote them in any order, but don’t erase them, even if you start the book over. That’s all I’ll say about that for now! Thank you for reading.
MAP OF AMBROSINIA
Just inside Noblehorn, two-thirds of the way down a castle’s hall and four doors past the hanging banners of various royal houses, three men sit at a nearly-cleared feast table, one of them begrudgingly.
Duke Ethias Mudd had consumed the meal set out for him in stony silence but waited a mere instant thereafter to breathe his ultimatum: “The residents of Noblehorn have put up with this for long enough. Until the eastern steppe is returned, the sanctions will continue.” He casts a fiery glare through a monocle at an elf across from him.
“Until you contribute your share to the royal fund,” the elf counters with folded hands, “the steppe will remain under close military watch, including the garnishment of ten percent of all economic activity that passes along the main roads. You know full well who the instigator here is.”
You hear none of it, as your hands fidget with an amulet depicting the god of the sun. Daydreams flood your mind, most prevalent among them the image of the half-elf Titania Vermouth, former mayoress of the port town of Sungaze. Her rescue plays itself over and over within you, as does the thrill of the fight, even as your knees buckled at the sight of her beauty, those six years ago.
“How do we solve this impasse, sir priest?”
You think you hear someone say something vague as your glazed eyes cast an empty look at the floor. A young servant takes away your plates and refills your water, but you do not drink.
“Bartleby!” The duke’s agitated baritone pierces the air. You shake your head and glance about.
“It was, my liege,” you say, “merely a… minor preoccupation.”
Mudd’s brows furrow. “Be preoccupied with royal business.”
“Yes, my liege.”
“Now, we asked you a question. How do we solve this impasse?”
You pause, then bite your lip. The silence stretches on. The duke and elf leader exchange wary glances.
“Well…” you sputter, “well, ah… perhaps if we requested the assistance of King Wyver…”
“He has already been consulted on the issue and has deferred involvement.”
“Or a compromise could be reached. Scale back the military presence to just enough personnel to collect the garnishments.”
The elf mumbles, “That possibility has been discussed. Before the meal arrived. Mudd, is this the best you can provide as a mediator?”
Mudd wrings his hands and shifts in his seat. “He did make the arrangements for us to meet here in the first place. You must understand that…”
The elf’s chair grates against the stone floor as he stands. “I mustn’t understand anything. We will resume talks when you make clear that you are dedicated to improving the situation.” He tucks a volume under his arm and marches toward the exit.
Mudd calls after him, “Now, wait just a minute…” The elf is now gone.
The duke wheels toward you, red-faced, and flails his hands about. “Do you mind explaining what could be so important?”
You begin to back away, when an idea strikes you. You extend a hand, gaze straight into the duke’s eyes and recite some mystical words.
“Oh, no, not that magic again,” he counters, “Bartleby, you do this to me every time…” Despite his will, Mudd’s tone drifts into calmer territory, the furrows in his brow disappear and his eyelids flutter.
“And doesn’t it feel better when I do?” You keep your hand out, feeling the charm energy drain into your employer.
He nods slowly. After a few more moments, when you are certain he won’t throttle you, you let the spell expire.
The duke clears his throat, approaches and says, “Bartleby, I know you are capable of better. You’ve served Ambrosinia well thus far and that’s why I’m not firing you. But just know that we must do what we can to rectify this, and that means no distractions. Understood?”
“Absolutely, my liege.”
A blond boy bursts through the door and shouts, “Urgent message for one Bartleby, servant of the church of the sun!” He yanks a scroll from his pack and shoves it in your face. You and the duke exchange dubious glances. The moment you grip the paper, the boy dashes out of the room and further into town. You open it and read:
Come to Whitetail as soon as you can. I need you. It’s about your godfather Fedwick, and it’s important.
Titania
What do you do?
I leave for Whitetail immediately.
I complete my diplomatic mission first.
As the afternoon flies by, you start to relish the challenge of keeping a straight face. The more you and Titania discuss and practice the routine, the clearer it becomes that you should set up the jokes.
“I’ve gotta make sure you’re listenin’ to me, ya see…” you rehearse, “Who’s on first watch.”
“I don’t know,” Titania immediately quips.
“No, she’s on third,” you explain.
Titania giggles yet again.
This might just work, you think.
As you approach the small riverside tavern where you learned the competition will occur, however, your confidence starts to fade. Gales of guffaws, followed by a rousing round of applause, meet your ears while you’re still many yards outside. A male voice shouts over the din, announcing the next troupe, after which you hear the clomp of footsteps on wood.
We’re late!
You rush forward, enter and attempt to register your presence with a tall human near the r
ear, only to be told that the emcee has stepped outside for fresh air and has asked not to be disturbed. These complications rattle your mind, but the audience now sits bored and unsettled. Anxious for more entertainment, a halfling in the front row twiddles his thumbs, while a young girl shouts at a high pitch, “Who’s up next?”
“Are we ready?” you ask Titania, your breath racing.
“We might as well!”
The stress, however, has left you unprepared. You bound onto the stage and without any introduction, you dive right in, only to say the wrong opening line. Titania compensates—the show must go on—but now all the punch lines are slightly off from where you’d rehearsed them, both in timing and tonality. You begin to sweat when nary a peep escapes the audience during your routine’s entire first half. You realize you’re staring at the floor while trying to remember the next setup, and glance upward, only to freeze completely as dozens of angry eyes stare up at you.
“Booooo!”
The child’s outcry breaks the stalemate, and the adults surrounding her shout derisive jeers; a few throw tomatoes, and you nearly slip while slinking off the stage in shame. Out of the corner of your eye, you think you see a pair of coordinators in fancy clothing whispering to each other, probably wondering how such amateurs ever thought they could win the first-place prize.
That’s no good…
Travel becomes harsher as you trek toward the mountainous settlement of Bladepass. The path underneath your feet gradually becomes rocky and unstable, and the surrounding vegetation sparsens. Traffic thins, and at one point you cannot see any sign of other life for miles. The journey stretches onward for many hours, until the orcblood leads you through a quick turn and toward what looks like a sharp drop-off, despite a gentle curve into the valley in question further on.
“We climb down here,” he grumbles. “No one see us.”
You have little trouble with the footholds, but Titania slips upon the first step, catching herself at the last moment. A chunk of sediment cracks off the cliffside, then echoes ominously as it bounces toward the ground below.
Galumnuk offers to hold and guide her, and with his help, all three of you make it to level ground within a few more minutes. The orcblood points the way, and you hike for a short distance. Ahead, a pair of lithe guards linger around a sprawling, one-story compound. They’re locked in conversation and don’t see you yet.
With a gesture, the orcblood silently suggests hiding behind the nearest boulder. You and Titania comply.
“How do we get in?”
Galumnuk scratches his head and whispers, “They wearing robes; if we win fight,”—he punches a fist into his open palm—"we take them and disguise selves.”
Titania counters, “But… didn’t you once work for them? Could you play off that allegiance to try to lie our way in?”
What do you do?
Galumnuk will pretend to want to rejoin the Arcanites.
We attempt to subdue the guards.
Cristof may be paranoid about secrecy or even prevention of panic, but Titania is a reputable woman, you reflect.
I trust her.
With considerable effort, you work your way back toward the main wing of the church. For some reason, all the worshippers that you noticed on the way in are now gone.
You exit via the way you came in. Outside, Titania, her head on her palms, sits where you left her, staring into the branches of a nearby sumac. When she notices you, she stands and quickly closes the distance.
“Well? What did you find out?” Excitement tinges her tone.
You glance about the streets.
“There are too many others that could overhear. This way.”
You lead Titania into a nearby alley and duck behind an overhanging string of laundry.
You look her straight in the eye. “I have been told that this cannot be divulged to anyone.”
She nods, serious.
Upon your sharing the need to prevent the idol from falling into evil hands, she asks, “Why in the world would the church choose to sit idly upon such information?”
“I’m guessing it’s because the monsignor doesn’t know whom to trust. Servants of all churches are everywhere, after all. Let the wrong person in on the idea, and suddenly Thomerion itself is at our back door.”
A moment of stunned silence passes.
“The monsignor,” you continue, “suggested we get everything we can out of Fedwick before attempting anything dangerous.”
“Yet,” Titania counters, “How do we speak with him discreetly? He can barely communicate as it is.”
“I have an idea.”
You guide Titania out of the alley and back toward the northern quarter. As you break into a brisk walk, the noontime sun casts stumpy shadows from the throngs of townsfolk, many of whom step aside when they see the urgency in your eyes.
“Slow down,” Titania shouts.
You shove open the medical ward’s door and demand the use of a parchment, ink and quill of the nearest assistant. When she hesitates, you flash your talisman, wielding the authority of the sun god. She nods and hurries to a supply shelf. Seconds later, Titania catches up.
“What are you going to do?”
The assistant returns and hands you the writing materials. You proceed to Fedwick once more, sit on a stool by his side and begin sketching. The dwarf notices your presence; his eyes flicker open and he turns his head but stays on his back.
Titania glances over your shoulder as a familiar continent takes shape on the upper part of your parchment. “A map?”
On the lower half, you forge primitive likenesses of the two halves of the idol, as well as of the imagery associated with them that you learned about within the temple. Alternating emphasis between one section and the other, you do your best to help Fedwick make the mental connection and perhaps even discover what else his visions have been telling him.
Upon a long pause, while you hover your hand over the yeti image, your godfather’s eyes widen. With a gurgly cough and a great effort, he sits up, extends a gnarled finger and points to a section of ‘ocean’ well north of the map’s mainland.
“But...” you gently protest, “godfather, there’s nothing up there.”
“Yes, there is,” Titania counters, “The frozen isles.”
You scratch your head. “They’re tiny, and no one lives there. Why would a part of what we’re looking for… be there?”
She shrugs. “To keep it as far away from evil hands as possible.”
You nod, deep in contemplation.
Repeating the same process with the bottom half of the idol seems to reveal that it’s somewhere within the treacherous dunes of the desert. Fedwick points to the extreme western corner of the continent.
“That’s nomad territory,” you note.
Titania nods. “They’ve been friendly to outsiders in the past, at least.”
After several moments of hesitation, Fedwick’s eyes flutter once again. It seems best to simply let him be for a while.
You pull Titania aside and subtly slip back out of the hospital. She arches an eyebrow.
“That’s a start, anyhow.”
You breathe. “It seems a long quest lies ahead.”
Which part of the idol do you go after first?
We explore the frozen isles.
We pursue the nomads.
After a glance around the hospital, you wrap your hands around Titania and speak to her in a low tone, “It’s been a while since you had some new jewelry. What do you say to that fancy number we looked at last week?”
Titania gasps. “You are serious! Are you sure?”
You nod, even as doubt bubbles up as to whether your stash of coin can withstand the cost. “Once we’ve completed what we need to do, it’s yours.”
“Let’s go!” she squeals, clapping her hands and seeming like a different person than a few moments before.
The hamlet of Sungaze, you reflect as you head toward the stable, offers more than a bit of tou
rist appeal, lined as it is with pristine pink-sand beaches and populated with friendly fishermen of all ages and races. But with only a few streets to peruse, you’ll more likely get in, find who you need and get out than engage in much fanfare.
You rent two horses and are soon on your way. The time passes without much excitement, so you strike up a conversation: “Have you heard much, my dear, about how the town is doing since you resigned as mayoress?”
Titania smiles. “I appreciate your asking. While the townsfolk lamented my departure, they have been helpful with acclimating my successor to the job. It’s the civil unrest lately that causes more problems than anything.”
You grimace. “With which I am all too familiar. The sanctions threaten to lead to civil war, should neither side back down. That is, however, in an entirely different part of Ambrosinia.”
“Indeed, which is why Sungaze would like to stay out of it as much as possible. Politically, it makes sense to do so. But economically, we don’t have nearly as much to offer as Fort Remnon or any of the other centers of manufacturing. Employment is becoming scarcer by the day.”
“I see.”
For a few moments, all you hear is the gentle clop of hooves. You have exited town, and the still air complements a haze blanketing the distant Whitetail River valley.
“You said ‘we’ just now.”
Titania nods and looks aside.
You ask, “Do you miss it?”
“It was time. I have never known myself to live with regrets. And yet, I can’t help but wonder…”