The Seal of Thomerion

by Daniel Heck

  THE SEAL OF THOMERION

  AN INTERACTIVE NOVEL

  By Daniel J. Heck

  Copyright © 2015

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters herein to real people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  If you enjoy this book, please look into other works by Daniel J. Heck at www.ebooksbydan.com, or search Amazon by the author’s name.

  Also available:

  Aaron Harrison’s Mystical Quill

  The Cowardly Thief

  The Indispensable Game Guide – Mensa Mind Games 2011-2013

  Big thanks and acknowledgements!

  I extend my deepest appreciation to the following people for their critically important roles in making The Seal of Thomerion happen:

  Matthew Ridout, for critique and unwavering friendship

  Peggy Elefson, for editing and fresh perspective

  Michelle Herring, for motivation and undying love

  Richard and Mary Heck, for raising me and instilling in me creativity and a burning desire to succeed

  Big thanks to the test-reading crew!

  Chris Acton

  Kirsten Goddard

  Peggy Golden

  Kay Herring

  Kristy Kozuki

  Michael Rogers

  Cover design by Andrei Bat,

  acquired via www.99designs.com

  You may be wondering:

  What is an ‘interactive novel?’

  There isn’t just one story to this book. In The Seal of 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 keep reading beyond it. Instead, follow the link thereafter that describes what you want to do. When you reach an ending, you can go back by one level, or simply start over again. As you read, you’ll find that a quest unfolds, and overall, the book contains 46 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 you might want to have separate pencil and paper handy. There are six keywords in all, and they 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, discard, or lose them, even if you start the book over. That’s all I’ll say about that for now! Thank you for reading.

  MAP

  Deep within an endless expanse of beige Ambrosinian fields stands a hut of stone and brick, its chimney jutting out from the northern wall at an awkward angle. You selected this haven to be your own twelve years ago, to ensure the peace of your retirement from the royal infantry and for its proximity to the bustling capital city of Whitetail, just a quarter-day’s travel to the west. Now, however, your heart is anything but at peace.

  On a cot therein lies Fedwick, the flickers of a fire in the nearby hearth dancing across his brow. Arms crossed, head hung, you stare down at him. Autumn’s breezes attempt to close a makeshift door several rooms away, banging it against its frame, and you suppress an instinctual annoyance. After all, nothing will wake this brother dwarf, for you have tried. In the heat of battle, he saved your hide on more occasions than you’d like to admit, but now appears more vulnerable than you’d ever imagined possible. Sweat pours from him, yet his leathery skin flashes pale, as his chest rises and falls in slow, belabored fashion. Heartsickness tugs at a part of you, but intrigue begins to grow from within as well.

  Stroking your beard, you grunt, “Can you do nothing more, Bartleby?”

  The bushy-haired, blue-eyed human leans into the wall at an opposite corner of the room, fiddling with a talisman representing the goddess of the sun. Although he subscribes to a different faith than you, the recent preoccupation of dwarven religious leaders with the construction of a new temple left you little other choice than to bring in an alternative healer. As a reputation for inclusivity preceded Bartleby, you’d gotten the impression that his peers think of him as something of a rebel. Now, however, his lack of confidence sets you aback.

  “Fedwick’s is no typical ailment,” he says, “Nay, I would call it a curse. For only those of the magical persuasion, such as I, can even detect the sigil burned upon his forehead, a combination of skull and dagger. That is the seal of Thomerion, the god of destruction. The question becomes: who inflicted it, and why? What opportunity would they have been granted to do so?”

  Your fists ball up. “You cannot remove it?”

  Bartleby hangs his head. “My magic is not powerful enough. The disease may be treatable, but not by any spells I or my brethren can cast.”

  “How long does he have?”

  “Unless something is done, perchance a fortnight.”

  You utter a guttural curse, and close your eyes. Sullenly muttering that you owe Fedwick whatever it may take to spare his life, you are tempted to cross your heart as you kneel by his side, but the oath has already been sealed.

  Gripping the hilt of your axe, you stand.

  “Where would you begin?”

  He ponders for a moment. “There is an old warehouse near the limits of the city that I have been told serves as a temple for worshippers of Thomerion. The search for those responsible may be dangerous, but the seal is our best lead.”

  “’Our’ lead?” you ask, arching an eyebrow.

  “Let us just say I have a private reason for being interested.”

  You nod politely, and let Bartleby continue, “On the other hand, you’d mentioned that the Pig’s Foot Inn and Tavern is your friend’s favorite watering hole, yes? Perhaps someone there can help.”

  The anticipation of many obstacles ahead begins to settle into your soul, heavy, as you scratch your chin in thought.

  Where do you go?

  To the Pig’s Foot Inn and Tavern.

  To the supposed temple of Thomerion.

  Pledging to return once you learn more, you leave Bartleby on watch over Fedwick, and proceed out of the stone hut and toward the core of Whitetail. A few hours later, you swing open the tavern’s oaken door, and a midday din drowns out its creak, assaulting you from all directions. A gang of card-playing orcbloods in one corner punctuates each bet and won pot with a shout and a slam of a gigantic fist, while a demure elven flutist’s performance attracts both the stares and the coppers of several admirers near the front windows. Gnomes of various heights scrabble about from place to place, jabbering in their native language. Standing among all this and more, you feel lucky that even one table has a spot available, and decide to cross toward the bartender and order before someone takes that one, too.

  “James,” you bellow, as a congenial blond gentleman behind the counter prepares your usual.

  “Hello, friend,” James says, saluting you with an open hand. “It has been several moons.”

  “My apologies. As of late, I have been preoccupied with a matter of grave importance.”

  “Grave?” James’s smile disappears.

  You clear your throat, and dive straight into the questions. “Fedwick. When was the last time you saw him in here?”

  “Fedwick… ah, he was in four afternoons ago. Sat in his corner, sippin’ a cheap ale. Why?”

  Your breath catches, but you say, “He is ill. I shan’t say more than necessary, for foul play is clearly involved.” Feeling cautious, you scan the room. A moment passes. “Was he here with anyone else?”

  “Not that I can recall. Nothing seemed amiss as he drank, although he was very quiet, even for him. Then he just rose and left.”

  You nod, pull a silver piece from your pouch and slide it across to James, who pockets it. He hands you a tankard full to the brim. “Should you discover anything,” you grumble, “find me.”

  “Anything for
you, good friend.”

  You shuffle toward and slide into the seat you saw, within a relatively quiet nook, and stare down into the tankard. Vibrations send tiny waves of ale sloshing against the container’s walls, and the reflection of your tired face repulses you, so you take several strong glugs, and pause to wipe your mouth against your arm. Your thoughts begin to turn inward, but then…

  “They say the man can work miracles…”

  “What a bunch of rubbish. There’s got to be some kind of rational explanation.”

  Bits of conversation from at least a pair of men, possibly more, meet your ears from the table behind you. That table juts up against the far wall of the tavern, and you recall seeing a hooded figure in the corner of your eye as you sat down, yet hadn’t thought much of it at the time. You decide against turning around just yet, but your ears strain to discern more against the general uproar:

  “What is he called again?”

  “Demetrius Argent, or so the legend says.”

  The image is now clear in your mind; at least one such person behind you could be trying to avoid detection.

  What do you do?

  I approach the men right here and now.

  I research the topic on my own first.

  “I have made my decision. We go to the temple,” you grunt, and then nod toward Fedwick. “Who shall guard him?”

  Bartleby replies, “I shall assign the task to a fellow cleric of the sun.”

  After arranging as such, you fill your waterskins and pack a ration each, and are ready to trek to the warehouse. The cleric tells you it lies within an isolated valley, several hundred yards behind the town’s westernmost grain mill. As you walk, he theorizes, “It’s hard to tell whether anyone will be there, but be on guard.”

  You ask, “How did you discover this use of the warehouse?”

  “A candidate for sacrifice cited it. She escaped one of their devilish rituals, even while barely alive.”

  You grimace, and your stomach turns a little.

  “Needless to say,” Bartleby continues, “We took her under our wing, and helped her recover.”

  “And this was not reported to the sherriff?”

  Bartleby sighs. “Alas, it was. But Thomerion’s followers are clever. They find ways to blend in, and cover up. Some even say their spies brainwashed the sheriff into believing the woman was insane.”

  Your companion halts. He cranes his neck, and points between two trees. “There,” he whispers.

  Together, you approach a vast, single-story structure overrun by vines. The surroundings have nearly engulfed it. Only the large double door at its front strikes you as having been at all maintained or used, since its western half stands ajar.

  You and Bartleby exchange glances.

  The cleric nods, and you push your way through the remaining foliage. Wishing that your pack would not make so much rustling noise, you lean over and peek through the gap. Most of what you see, one would most likely expect: Rotting crates, mold and dirt scattered about. You enter. A copper piece or two lay in cracks between boards, but retrieving them reveals their almost unusable condition. Lighting an oil lamp may otherwise have been called for here, but rays of midday sun pierce the roof in so many places that you can see just fine, right down to the floating, dusty haze that tempts you to cough.

  You tiptoe around a stack of crates and notice something different: a raised, rectangular slab of stone at the end of a makeshift corridor.

  “Bartleby,” you whisper as you tug at his sleeve. You point. “Ah,” he muses, “Perhaps an altar of some sort?”

  For now, it appears that no one’s here but you two. You approach the stone, and note some permanent blood stains on its surface. “By the gods…” you mutter. Someone made a poor attempt to cover the marks with a pair of red and black banners.

  “What’s this?” Bartleby says.

  He gawks at a massive book, which sits in the exact center of the altar’s surface. You notice an icon burned into the cover: a hammer superimposed over the moon. Temptation to reach for it burns within you.

  “By the gods,” you grumble. “What is the Impactium doing here?”

  “The Impactium…” Bartleby says, with a scratch of his head, “The dwarven holy verses.”

  “Indeed.”

  Only a few complete copies of the Impactium exist in the first place. The idea that the servants of Thomerion might be exploiting one makes your blood boil.

  What do you do?

  I examine the Impactium directly.

  I wait out the situation.

  You’re no expert on the undead, but you do know they’re almost never friendly. This skeleton’s killer instinct may soon kick in, so you wield your axe with your free hand. The enemy shrieks and adapts an aggressive pose.

  With a forward lunge, you swing your weapon at the creature’s midsection, but it dodges, and slams its fist into your jaw. You struggle to maintain balance, as the blow carried more force than you expected from something with no muscle. Your enemy sidesteps and rears to strike again. You exhale in a strained, echoing heave.

  Subdual tactics might be in order.

  You let your weapon drop to your feet with a clang, grab the creature’s legs with ease and yank, sending it crashing backward into the dirt. Stunned, it rolls onto its front in a weak effort to stand, but by that time you have already retrieved your axe and rent the skeleton’s skull in two with one smooth arcing motion. The creature twitches once, and a violet wisp of life force drains out of it and disperses into the air.

  You double-check that all your teeth are still present, and notice something tied to the pile of bones at the hip by a frayed string. It reflects your torchlight back into your eyes, forcing you to squint.

  It appears to be a metal key of some sort.

  “Hmph,” you say to no one. You pocket the key with a sly smirk.

  “Find something?”

  You jump halfway out of your armor and whirl about, only to find Bartleby standing nearby.

  “Do watch where you swing that torch, if you please,” he jests.

  “Thank the gods,” you grumble while reminding yourself to breathe. “I thought we’d been separated for good.”

  “As did I. You disappeared when you touched the book. As I mimicked your touch, it sent me here as well. A repeatable, self-resetting teleportation trap.”

  You arch an eyebrow. “And that means?”

  “That we are dealing with something, or someone, much more powerful than ourselves.”

  You meet that observation with sober silence, and begin searching the chamber. Bartleby lights a small lamp, and follows your cue to help find a way out. The room stretches wide; it takes you a full minute just to scan the length of one wall. While far from natural in formation, the piles of chipped brick and random stone used as foundation for this cavern don’t strike you as any form of sophisticated architecture, either. Further, you ponder why the church of Thomerion would be luring dwarves into their clutches. A forced mass-conversion, so as to expand the congregation? A grudge of some sort against dwarves as a whole? Your brow twists into a frown.

  “Here,” Bartleby shouts. You turn and cross toward the cleric, and see that he has found both a heavy metal door and, a few feet away within the perpendicular wall, a dark archway, under which the floor slopes downward. The archway leads to an open cavern.

  You show Bartleby the key, in an open palm.

  “Fascinating,” he says.

  “Quiet,” you grunt. You step up to the door and listen, but all that meets your ears is your own faint heartbeat. Pulling on the latch reveals that the door, as expected, is locked. You ponder your options.

  Could this door have a trap in it as well? Yet, who knows what we could find elsewhere…

  What do you do?

  I test the key in the door.

  I investigate the cavern.

  Something about this creature seems approachable, so you figure it could be all the better to refrain from knee-jerk
hostility. You say slowly, “Can you understand me?”

  It shrugs, and clatters about some more.

  “How did I get here? Do you know if there’s a way out?”

  Its jaw begins to flap, and only sometimes corresponds to the ethereal moans and cackles it emits. A few specific syllables give away that the creature speaks the language of the underworld demons. By combining what little of that dialect you know with pantomime, you get the message across. The skeleton saunters toward an archway, which leads into a dank tunnel.

  “Many thanks,” you express to the best of your ability.

  The creature inserts himself between you and the archway.

  “Why?” it asks.

  “Why?” you repeat. “Why what?”

  It stands, silent.

  You blurt, “I seek the servants of Thomerion.”

  The skeleton whirls about and shrieks, “Then you may not pass.”

  With a lurch, it flips a stone lever within the wall, and an immense porticullis drops out of the ceiling, closing off the tunnel. Just as quickly, the creature assaults you, its bony fists pushing and striking with fervor.

  “Curse you, undead scum!” you shout. You draw your axe, just as a flash from behind you illuminates the entire chamber. A ray of focused energy envelops the skeleton, dissolving it, and within seconds nothing remains of the creature’s bones but a pattern of chalky dust on the floor. You turn to see Bartleby behind you, who lowers his sun god talisman.

  “Be careful where you point that thing,” you grumble.

  “A little gratitude would be appropriate,” the cleric replies.

  “I thought I’d lost you for good.”