by Daniel Heck
Titania gulps. Galumnuk crosses his arms, and frowns.
By now, the bright globelike creature has closed to within a couple yards. Even though it has no eyes, you feel as if you are being inspected all over. It stops bobbing and starts to emit a low hum.
Then, a tentacle-like extension of light grows out of it, pointing straight past a large row of maple trees. Judging by the sun, you would have never guessed that direction was appropriate, and must have gotten turned around at some point.
“Our thanks.”
After you have traversed just a few yards in that direction, the ground shifts underneath you; a gigantic net of animated foliage bursts from beneath soil cover and rises, carrying the three of you with it. You instinctively lurch your body toward open ground, but the trap has already ensnared your feet and arms. Titania slashes at the vines with her dagger, but they hold; if anything, the energy expended seems to strengthen their resolve.
After you come to a stop high above the ground, a man in black and red robes emerges from within the shadows. He grins sadistically at you, and grumbles, “Your interference ends here.” He incants a mystical word, and the white globe winks out entirely. You utter a prayer of thanks for having led a blessed life, as you helplessly watch the wizard’s hands gather magical flames, set to blast you into oblivion.
Go back to the previous choice, or start again.
You glance innocently toward Titania, who, with a begrudging nod, concedes that Darlayne’s expertise so far has proven her worth.
She invites, “Certainly you may come along. But it mustn’t cost us anything extra. You did mention something about an exception for extensive travel.”
Darlayne replies matter-of-factly, “I shall consider it an exploratory mission, rather than a hired task.”
Rather flippant words, you reflect, considering the circumstances!
“Where is this… Divine Labyrinth?” you ask, “and why is it divine?”
“The former I can show you,” Darlayne says, “As for the latter, no one really knows.”
While processing this, you venture into the core of town, rent horses and stock your bags, before returning to the northwest city gate. As you leave Whitetail to complete one of the most daunting tasks you’ve ever faced, questions swirl in your mind, and tension bubbles up in your chest. The tracker saunters ahead, her strides deliberate, while you and Titania lag just out of earshot.
You ask of your love, “What additional details did Fedwick speak of? If we reach him, will he even be able to communicate with us?”
“I suppose that depends,” Titania replies, “on how badly Xelbane has scared the daylights out of him.”
You frown and turn your gaze to just above the horizon.
“But, to answer your question, he didn’t say where this gate is, who could open it, or what would be required to do so. It is his connection as a rare survivor of the seal of Thomerion that makes us give weight to his words.”
As the day drags onward, your wonderment is further complicated by suspicions that you’re being led to nowhere. Dusk approaches and the sky starts to gray, when Darlayne pulls you entirely off the path, through a tangly forest and toward a system of hills. She waits for you both to catch up, before pointing ahead and asking, “See that?”
You look down from a high vantage point into a rounded natural canyon, several hundred yards away. It looks like it might have been formed by the impact of some mystical meteorite.
Suddenly a tremendous mass passes overhead, momentarily casting you into deep shadow. The whoosh of heavy wingbeats meets your ears.
Titania whispers, “Hide!”
The three of you duck behind the nearest tree, then peek out just far enough to watch a black dragon circle twice around the canyon mouth, then descend into it and disappear within its depths.
You dart forward out of instinct, but Darlayne pulls you back.
“Jumping in from above would be pure suicide,” she says. “But I know an entrance. This way.”
She leads you further into the wood, then down into the valley adjacent to the gaping canyon. Therein, after a brief search, you find a mighty oak that stands apart from the rest of the increasingly sparse vegetation. Its south-facing edge appears unusually flat.
“There isn’t anything of note here,” you say.
“Oh, yes, there is,” Darlayne proclaims. She puts her hand up to the face of the oak, and then pushes right through it. The illusory surface completely envelops her wrist, undulating a little like brown pudding.
“Shall we?”
You and Titania exchange glances. You shrug, and nod.
Intriguing!
“Hrmm…”
Titania ponders for a moment before entering.
“What would you say is the ‘talent’ I’d need to apply?”
“You’re a public speaker,” you reply. “Perhaps words hold the key.”
Titania giggles. “I’m just supposed to ask it to get out of the way, and hope it hears me?”
You cross your arms. “I’m serious.”
“All right,” she admits, “but, where would I begin?”
“The vestige is dwarven. A former associate of mine would often refer to their holy verses, called the Impactium, for guidance.”
“Well, we don’t have a copy of those around, do we?
You exhale. “Then just say whatever you know in Dwarven.”
Frowning, she turns, surveys the statue once more and, with some effort, recites:
“Paramundo De Carnavi! Elle Fedima Di Zengraf!”
The mountains are our savior! Their rock is our firmament!
The verse’s lack of emotional impact notwithstanding, at least she properly inflected the right syllables. It takes some effort to pull your mind back into to the current moment. Your group waits for a while. Nothing happens, to the statue or anybody else.
Titania admits, “We either don’t have enough information, or we picked the wrong person.”
Who will try the statue tunnel next, if he or she hasn’t already?
Matthias.
Myself.
The surroundings seem to sense that you have conquered the trio of challenges, and the numbers above the tunnels start to glow with an intense white light. Titania and Matthias shield their faces, while you stare, entranced, until the light fades. Just as you finish rubbing your eyes from the burning glare, you hear a click from the door to the left.
Stunned into silence, you step toward the door and pull on the bar spanning its middle. The door opens. You hear something breathing from far within.
Matthias dares look first, into the connecting passageway. “Give me that torch,” he orders.
Upon your hesitation, he follows with, “We’ve come this far, haven’t we? No sense in stopping now.”
From fear to foolhardiness a man doth leap, you ponder.
You stare into the depths and lead your party forward. Moisture drips from stalactites as you trek. At one point, loose rock shifts underneath your feet, and you stumble, nearly tripping headfirst. The surroundings strike you as more straightforward than before, and could hardly be called a labyrinth, even if the ominous rumble ahead weren’t guiding you.
The pathway reclines, and your footsteps kick up dust. The inside of your nose starts to itch and irritate you…
“Ahchoooo!”
The sneeze escapes you before you can even cover your mouth; the sound echoes off the cavern walls.
“Hrmmm…”
A voice grumbles from ahead, “Humans.”
Matthias swallows hard. Titania visibly shakes.
“Come.”
You turn a final corner, and there, fifty feet away, upon a tremendous bed of coins and treasures lies a writhing, stretching mass of muscle and horns. Each pitch-hued scale on the dragon reflects and yet dims the light streaming in from above, as if to steal its life-giving force. Matthias extinguishes his torch. Xelbane pivots his head toward your party, and you remind yourself to breathe as i
ts steel-blue eyes penetrate the depths of your soul.
A familiar dwarf sits nearby the hulking beast.
“Fedwick!” Titania blurts. She bolts forward to help.
“Halt.”
Titania obeys.
Such meetings, you think, surely need be on its terms.
It slowly stands, then approaches by a few yards. It cranes its neck back and forth, examining you, then Titania, and finally Matthias. “I knew you would come,” it rumbles. “Fedwick predicted it. He is unharmed.”
“What is your intent?” Titania’s voice cracks, yet she presses on.
“The Arcanites seek your godfather.”
You arch an eyebrow as Xelbane speaks directly to you. A moment passes.
“Arcanites?” you ask. “Who are they?”
“A band of magicians who have unlocked a method of bringing Thomerion himself to this earth.”
Inexplicably, a feeling of doom even greater than the immediate threat settles into you.
“Why do they want Fedwick?”
“A keyword he knows could be used to fuse together the pieces of a particular golden idol. When that occurs, those pieces open a gate to the demon realm.”
Matthias scratches his head. “So,” he says, “you’re actually protecting him?”
Xelbane nods.
You let the tension drain out of your chest in a slow fizzle. Titania’s shoulders droop as she glances about in confusion.
“Although of course,” the dragon continues, “I could still have a nice barbecue… if you try anything funny.” He directs this last word at your love.
You swallow one more time, and step forward. “Xelbane, my name is Bartleby, cleric of the church of the sun. I’m aware of your strength and capability, and I offer you peace. At the same time, I can’t help but fall short of full understanding. You’ve taxed our kingdom for eons, and then expect us to trust that you have good intentions after you kidnap a prominent dwarf from the fields of Whitetail. Before we continue, I think you owe us further explanation.”
The dragon raises its head as far as it will go, and exhales a dual burst of smoke. Its continued lethargy, however, seems to preclude any anger.
It speaks slowly, deliberately. “The Arcanites… destroyed my brethren and sistren.”
Your party exchanges glances, and listens.
“The scales and blood of my kind, in their eyes, comprise some of the most valuable spell components in the universe. After dragons and humankind had spent centuries living largely separate and peaceful existences, a band of the Arcanites’ most skilled illusionists set a trap deep in the mountainside, where they knew we would find it. Being eldest, my senses served me best, and I avoided capture. The others were ensnared, their mouths instantly seamed shut, and their claws severed. I fought to free them, but ice magic held me at bay.”
Xelbane turns its head, to stare at the empty, craggy walls. Its bass tone betrays a hint of sadness, as he continues, “Now… only I remain.”
The moment stretches onward. You grip your sun talisman, contemplating.
Matthias asks, “What good will revenge do?”
“You mischaracterize revenge,” Xelbane corrects, “for if I knew where to find them, I could have long ago reduced every wizard in this kingdom to ash. Nay, I seek instead to restore the order that once was, for Thomerion’s rage dwarfs mine by many multitudes.”
Should I be concerned, you ponder, that I find spiritual commonality with a beast of this nature?
Titania relaxes. “If they were looking for Fedwick,” she asks, “do you think they could find him, and you, here?”
A sight from far above answers her question. Through the gaping mouth of the cavern you think you see a half-dozen gryphons circling in the sky. You observe for a full minute. Judging by their repetitive flight patterns, they’re not simply migrating for the rainy season, and almost certainly have riders atop each.
“What are those doing here?” Matthias asks.
Wizards don’t typically have the training to ride exotic mounts. These creatures could have little, if anything, to do with your predicament. Curiosity burns within you, yet attempting to get their attention may cause more harm than good.
What do you do?
I wave the flyers down while Xelbane hides.
We let the flyers make the first move.
Renewing your focus, your party presses southeastward until the moon has risen a third of the way through the sky. Soon, your groggy skulls swim as your muscles throb and pulse with pain from being pushed to their very limits. Marching yet longer, you keep track of the number of animals you encounter—overall, four squirrels and a stray dog—to stave off tedium, and begin to think you won’t make it, when mercy strikes.
As you traipse over a weed-covered hill, you finally see a settlement ahead, its watchtowers heavily manned and its streets bustling with activity: the military bastion of Noblehorn.
You explain your intent to the gatekeepers, who, seeing your condition, kindly share water and rations. They point you toward the royal armory—the coordinators felt that using the town hall as normal would attract unwanted attention.
“Are we considered unwanted?” Titania inquires.
“I am not one to judge,” a helmeted lieutenant replies, “We merely follow orders, so you’ll have to go see for yourselves.”
You easily find the armory. Dozens of nobles and representatives dressed in a variety of bright patchwork patterns mill about. Your party checks your weapons, including your talisman and Titania’s dagger, in with a royal quartermaster’s assistant—after all, authorities demand the utmost security—after which you push through the crowd to investigate.
“Does this mean we’ve made it in time?” you ask.
“That depends,” booms a familiar voice, “on whether you’ll be of use if you stay.”
You whirl about, to find Duke Mudd himself standing behind you.
“And about that,” he says with a sneer, “I have my doubts.”
You clutch your chest, anxiety rising. “Ethias…”
“Never call me by my first name, whelp.”
You lock gazes with your former employer. You feel your jaw stiffen, and the silence stretches uncomfortably.
“You can no longer order me around, Sir Mudd.”
“Oh, but I can do, and have done, so much more than that. For you see, whatever power you think you possess by which to influence these proceedings is meaningless. The envoy knows, from my direct testimony, that you abandoned your post, and were replaced.”
He nods toward an older gentleman, who lurks over the duke’s shoulder. You note his vestments, identical to yours.
Nonplussed, you say nothing.
“We need to speak to the envoy,” Titania says, “about a gate…”
“You will do no such thing,” Mudd interrupts, “for those in positions of true authority are handling this matter. And furthermore…” he condescends toward your love, “Of Bartleby here, I was not completely surprised by his behavior. His scatterbrained strategies never did amount to much, either within his church or within the government.”
Your irritation graduates to rage. That’s not what you told me, you rant internally, just before I left!
Mudd continues, “But you… Miss Vermouth, with all your leadership experience, I’d have thought you knew better than to associate with such rabble.” He shoots glances at both you and Galumnuk.
Titania rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. You growl and pound a fist into your palm. The orcblood grips your shoulder firmly, calming you just enough to keep you from trying anything rash.
“Might you want to redeem yourself, young cleric? Sit, and just listen. Do nothing more, at risk of being detained. Mayhaps you might even learn something.”
What do you do?
I merely observe the proceedings.
I interject despite Mudd’s warnings.
This big guy’s sticking around must be a sign, you conclude.
Yo
u help Titania mount the gryphon once more, a proposition she accepts with surprising vigor, then you follow suit. She holds you around the waist as you spur the creature into action. It climbs high into the sky and you steer it toward the castle. Though you don’t direct it to do so, it flies even higher the closer you get, until you can’t see below you. Titania emits a joyful whoop, which startles you.
“Facing our fears, are we?”
“There’s a first time for everything,” she shouts, “And the second is often easier!”
You grin, and ask, “Do you think anybody’s watching from the towers?”
“There’s only one way to find out,” Titania replies, as trepidation and the thin air force your lungs to struggle for oxygen.
Upon only a slight pull on its reins, as if reading your minds, the gryphon breaks from its flight pattern into a gradual descending arc. With a great buffer of wing flaps, it slows, then makes a clean landing upon flat stone. By some miracle, no one is up here but you.
You dismount and dash toward the ramparts. You find the cannon with the requisite markings, but even to your trained eye, it seems no different than any of the others regarding magic.
“Shall we see what happens?”
Titania nods.
Taking care to keep the two idol halves from interlocking, you load them into the cannon and point the machine straight up. You retrieve flint and some wood from your pack and strike up a small flame, but even as you set it to the wick, the wick refuses to burn. In fact, you think you see that a buffer of air, a few millimeters thick, surrounds the protrusion, as if consciously rejecting all attempts at operation.
You back down, put out the flame and reflect. Several tense moments pass, but then you remember what Stephano muttered,
“There is one more requirement… go to the throne room…”