The Seal of Thomerion

by Daniel Heck

  “As did I. After a few moments, I realized the only course of action was to attempt to follow you. Lo and behold, handling the book sent me here. Some kind of self-resetting teleportation trap.”

  You both glance about the narrow radius of illuminated ground.

  “But now what?”

  “What is over there?” Bartleby points to the closed passageway.

  “Feel free to take a closer look. I’ll be over here.”

  Perpendicular to the porticullis stands a large metal door with an obvious keyhole. You pull on the handle, but the door is locked. Perhaps the skeleton guarded both passages, you wonder.

  You step back toward the pile of dust, and kneel over it. A small, disfigured hunk of metal sits within. Although a few untouched millimeters of its surface area reflect your torchlight, Bartleby’s divine blast has rendered the teeth and shaft of the key useless.

  You stand and ask the cleric, “Any luck?” as he attempts over and over to lift the barrier. You assist, but even with your combined strength, this porticullis is just too heavy to move. You flip the stone lever back to its original position, but that has no effect at all. And since both the blockage and door are made of metal, you don’t see yourself chopping through either anytime soon.

  A feeling of doom settles into your gut as you step up to the door for several moments. You listen at it, but hear only the voice of regret speaking within you as to why you never learned to pick locks.

  Few options remain. Your shouts for help boom against the walls and the door. Nobody comes, first for hours, then for a full day, by which time you have consumed your limited rations and water. Days turn into weeks, and you have long since finished searching for secret passages or any form of salvation when your starved, dehydrated bodies give up the fight. Perhaps there is some slight solace, your final clouded thoughts tell you as your eyeballs roll backwards in their sockets, in the possibility of being raised again, if only to serve your captor as the next undead guardians of Thomerion.

  Your quest has ended… or has it?

  Go back to the previous choice, or…

  Restart from the beginning.

  Making sure not to turn your back to the skeleton, you skim along the wall with your free hand as you shift slowly away. The creature just watches you. After what seems an eternity, you detect an opening behind you, the ground beneath which slopes downward. With one last hesitant glance at the undead, you slip into the tunnel.

  Moisture drips from hundreds of stalactites here, yet the air feels dusty. Whereas the previous area seemed hastily constructed, this one seems merely connected to. At the same time, the cracking, ancient coffins that jut out of natural cubbies in the rock indicate extensive humanoid use of the space. All of the coffins are sealed tight.

  You exhale through irritated lungs, and feel your chances of finding any form of friendly life down here--let alone the parties responsible for your capture or Fedwick’s illness--start to fade.

  A burst of white light meets your eyes, but just as quickly dissipates. You turn and take a few cautious steps back toward the mouth of the cavern, and a familiar profile steps into your torchlight.

  “There you are!” Bartleby chimes.

  “By the gods,” you say, “I thought we were separated for good.”

  “As did I. You disappeared upon handling the Impactium. I figured I could only do the same, and the trap cast upon it sent me here.”

  “So…” you exhale, “What now?”

  “Well,” Bartleby replies, “you won’t have to worry about that skeleton following us. It’s a pile of dust. Although… I shudder to think how many times I’ll have to use that energy blast in a place like this.”

  You nod, and turn toward the back end of the cavern.

  The cleric asks, “What have you discovered?”

  “Not much. Let’s take a closer look.”

  We investigate.

  Your family may have taught you to play it safe, but your peers taught you to take a chance now and again. You figure that the worst that can happen from talking to the men is that they’re out for themselves, and refuse your involvement.

  You stand, turn about, approach their table, and put on your best authoritative voice and face so as to compensate for your lack of height.

  “Gentlemen,” you bark, “You’ll pardon me, but what are these miracles of which you speak?”

  The hooded figure sits across from a muscled human in moss-hued clothing, whose longbow lies lengthwise across the table as if it were not an obstacle. This man’s style reminds you of a band of rangers that patrols the prairie just outside Whitetail. You can discern far less about the hooded man, who glances at his companion and then back at you in apparent shock.

  “Why is it of concern to you?” he snaps. To his companion he complains, “I told you this was a poor place to discuss this, Zander.”

  You catch Zander shooting a glance at James, who nods as if to say ‘he’s all right.’ Zander turns back and says, “Calm yourself, Mikhail. Let’s hear him out.” The ranger’s voice is gentler than you expected, and he gestures kindly toward you. “Have a seat.”

  You nod your thanks, and pull a stool from another table up to this one. Mikhail scowls but acquiesces, his gaze unwavering.

  Zander explains, “We seek someone with the power to destroy a cursed magical artifact once called the Black Rose.” At this, Mikhail pulls a corner of his cloak aside, letting you catch a glimpse of a goblet, made of translucent crystal in the hue of midnight itself. “We have tried to physically shatter it, hired friends to cast spells upon it, everything, but to no avail. Something beyond our means protects it.”

  Mikhail says, “A collector previously owned it, and then a different collector after her, but its evil energy gradually corrupted their flesh, turning them each into hideous undead, before anyone could figure out what was going on.”

  Zander asks, “What was it again, that the church found, somehow invisibly burned upon their foreheads?”

  “The seal of Thomerion.”

  The two men reel in surprise, as they hear you say these words at the same time as Mikhail. A moment passes. Zander looks at you askance, but before he can ask, you explain about your quest to remove the seal from Fedwick. He now smiles at you in unspoken openness toward teaming up.

  “What could your friend have had to do with the Black Rose?” Mikhail muses.

  “We shall find out, it seems, by killing two birds with one stone,” Zander rejoices.

  “We could use the additional manpower, I suppose,” Mikhail grumbles.

  Your heart hopeful, you raise your tankard in salute, and mention, “I overheard something about a Demetrius Argent.”

  Zander says, “He supposedly lives in a mysterious cavern outside the City of Storms. Word has it that he will only grant his services to those who pass his tests.”

  You huff into your beard, unintimidated.

  “Shall we prepare to depart?”

  “We should round out the party,” you suggest, “I have someone I’d like you to meet.”

  You lead your team back to the stone hut. Bartleby accepts your invitation to tag along, and with a quick stop at the church arranges for a brother clergyman to watch Fedwick while you are away.

  Your team rents some horses from the local stable. You stock some supplies, and soon you clomp along the rough road northeast of town, a day and a half’s journey ahead of you on the way to the City of Storms.

  Primarily populated by folk of the fairer races, your destination has earned its moniker from weather whose tumult threatens the foundations of many a treehouse on a regular basis. Yet the people stay there, in no small part, to honor familial tradition, as well as to maintain the town’s status as an integral hub of commerce.

  For hours, you ponder these and other geographical insights, and wonder whether your newest companions will say anything at all, whether to each other or to you. The greatest tidbit they reveal is Mikhail’s demeanor itself; at around high
noon he pulls back his hood in order to wipe his brow of sweat. His pointed ears, sandy hair and angular face indicate he may have some elf relatives nearby. Bartleby says little throughout the day as well, although his face reflects an increasing weariness.

  Similarly, your backside has stiffened by the time the sun sinks beneath the horizon, and in retrospect, you wish you had stopped more often than to just refill your waterskins from a stream.

  Zander points toward a clearing in the wood many yards off the path. Mikhail nods. This will be your camp for the night.

  “Who shall take which watch?” the ranger asks.

  Mikhail raises his hand. “First watch,” he says, sounding fatigued.

  Most elves you’ve known get tired of always keeping watch, a side effect of how they need less rest than other races. Your charitable side urges you to give your companion a break, or at least help with the other shift. Then again, the chance to sleep straight until sunup sounds quite appealing in its own right.

  What do you do?

  I relieve Mikhail of first watch.

  I take second watch.

  I stay silent, and hope that someone else takes watch.

  It strikes you as impossible that non-humanoids could execute such rhythmic knocking. Any such being might not necessarily be hostile, but then again, you contend, an innocent traveler would have unusual difficulty navigating at this hour, you contend. Why here, and why now?

  You stand, but refrain from calling out, and take a few cautious steps off the path. In front of you darts a gaunt figure, its silhouette cutting off your view of the moon for an instant, only to retreat once more behind some vast tree trunk. Your eyes dart about as you scan the scene, and your muscles pulse, at the ready.

  The breeze sends a chill up your neck. All is quiet.

  “Who’s there?” you grunt.

  A crunch of leaves telegraphs just enough; you whirl about and catch an arm in mid-strike, then wrench it behind the figure’s back. It drops a shiv to the ground and yelps in pain, but you use your other hand to seal its mouth. While it struggles to get away, you assess by the distant firelight that the being seems human, even if only in the strictest sense. Short, bald and nearly toothless, it appears so deprived that you’re shocked it had the energy to surprise you. You throw the being to the ground and sit on its chest.

  “What are you doing here?” you growl.

  “It is not your business,” it hisses. “Let me go!”

  “Oh, but I’ll make it my axe’s business if you don’t talk.”

  “Eep!” It looks both ways, and trembles violently.

  “Okay, okay,” it sputters. “I’m a messenger.”

  “For whom?”

  “I am to meet with an elf at this location…”

  “An elf? Which elf?”

  “I was not informed of his name! I swear it!”

  You grip his skull, and bring him to within inches of your gaze.

  “Why were you to meet him here?”

  “I… I…”

  “I will kill you! I swear it!”

  “To relay information from the commanders of the Army of Thomerion!”

  Your face flushes, and your head spins. “What?” you whisper.

  You glance back toward the campsite.

  Mikhail. So that is why.

  The next moment, the messenger strikes you a low blow with its bony fist, and as you keel to your side in agony, it wriggles to its feet and bolts toward the horizon.

  Rarrggh. My guard has been down in more ways than one.

  You pace your breathing and lie still as the blunt ache subsides. A minute passes before you stand, and ponder.

  Your instinct was right, you tell yourself. The hooded man just couldn’t be trusted. But, you reflect, you don’t know all the circumstances. Is it at all possible for the messenger to have referred to some other elf? And what about Zander? Mikhail has likely deceived him for far longer than you know.

  An Army of Thomerion? Something must be done about this…

  You return to camp, and push on Bartleby’s shoulder.

  The cleric wakes slowly. “What is the matter?”

  You explain what you have learned in hushed whispers. Bartleby scratches his chin. “Our personal safety may be an issue,” he offers. “I would be willing to carry on with just the two of us. On the other hand, how confrontational do you feel at the moment?”

  What do you do?

  I wake Zander as well and confront Mikhail.

  I continue on with only Bartleby, to put some distance between us and the spy.

  You affirm to yourself your job as night watchman: If there’s a threat, help protect the party. In this case, there’s only noise. No threat, you repeat to yourself.

  At least, not yet.

  Still sitting, you watch for a while in the general direction of the knocking, which fails to repeat. The mild wind’s whistle takes over your ears, and your heart slows again as it becomes apparent that, whatever the source of the noise was, it is now gone.

  You grumble for a moment about letting yourself tense up over nothing, one of your most insidious habits. Then, the night sky calms your thoughts, and your gaze wanders toward various constellations. Orion, your favorite since childhood, stares back at you from the south. You imagine a hunter, cinching its belt and preparing for the next kill. Minutes stretch out into hours, and your eyelids begin to flutter.

  A hand on your shoulder startles you awake.

  You turn your head and glance into Mikhail’s hood. Although his eyes remain shadowed, his nod indicates he’s ready to take over.

  You prepare your bedroll and retire for the night. Tiny, twinkling points of light from the heavens form the day’s last images, still visible on the insides of your eyelids as you drift into unconsciousness.

  You dream of the armorsmith back home, and, waking only once during the night, remind yourself to get re-acquainted with her sometime soon, the drunken rants you spewed on your one and only date together notwithstanding.

  I sleep, and eventually rise.

  Not wanting to take chances, you shuffle toward Bartleby and jiggle his shoulder. “Men! There’s something here!” you bellow.

  Mikhail groans, sits up halfway, and scans with drowsy eyes. Zander wakes with a start, and says, “What’s happening?”

  “There!” you point, only to look up, listen, and realize there is only quiet; the depths of the night display little activity of any kind.

  “There’s nothing there…” Mikhail moans.

  “There was a knocking,” you assert. “It sounded purposeful.”

  Zander stands and dusts himself off. “Well, whatever it was now knows we’re here. We shall investigate, just to be safe.”

  Bartleby now sits up, and considers the exchange, but says nothing. Mikhail appears more alert. “Don’t bother,” he grunts.

  Zander says, “It will only require a moment.”

  Mikhail grumbles, “Then the three of you go without me. Unlike you, I value my rest more than to allow myself to be scared by mice as they skitter about the forest floor.”

  Bartleby shouts, “How dare you speak to us that way!”

  Zander says, “Enough!” He casts a stern glare at his elf companion, who lies back down within his bedroll. “To each his own.”

  The three of you huddle just off the path. Bartleby lights an oil lamp; you enter the wood, and each scan in a different direction. A squirrel darts up a tree, and a ruffled owl perches, watching you.

  You examine a gigantic oak, then its neighboring maple. Little about the trees stands out. Bartleby raises and lowers the lamp to discover every inch of possible secrets. Zander kicks through a tangle of moss. All in all, you spend a good while here, and find nothing. The three of you stand, stare at each other, and listen. Still no knocking.

  Zander purses his lips at you. “Perhaps Mikhail was right.” You frown back at him, and cross your arms.

  The cleric defends, “I grant him the benefit of the doubt.
”

  Zander gestures for the group to return to camp. You take a moment to get reoriented, find the fading embers of the fire again, and settle back onto the ground as Bartleby blows out his lamp. Your companions nod you their goodnights, but uneasiness creeps into you yet again. Something feels different.

  Mikhail did not move or say a thing when you returned, although his bedroll appears crumpled, and for some reason has been moved to the very edge of the fire’s radius of illumination. You stand and look closer.

  “Mikhail!” you shout, “He’s gone!”

  The bedroll sits empty, beyond the hooded cape stuffed within.

  The other two men approach. “Do you suppose he was kidnapped?” Bartleby muses, “Was this all a ruse?”

  Zander shakes his head. “This appears to have been his choice. If there had been a struggle, we’d have heard it from the woods, or see blood nearby. Furthermore, he took the rest of his supplies with him.”

  You blink. “But surely there must be a reason for this,” you say. “At least, beyond how he seemed rather tired of us, if you follow me.”

  “Ever since I have known him,” Zander says, “he has been a test at every turn, and seems to feel that others are the same to him.”

  “How long have you known him?”

  “We met at a banquet a few years ago. The more we conversed, the more we found we had many of the same goals. It seemed a natural alliance at the time, but perhaps no longer…” He retreats into thought.

  Bartleby says, “Let us rest. The heavy dew may allow us to track his footfalls in the morning, should we desire to pursue him.”

  You warn, “Fedwick’s fate approaches ever nearer, while we propose to dally about chasing wayward elves?”

  Zander ponders, “The Black Rose is still in Mikhail’s possession. Without it, I stand to gain little by continuing on. This is not to say I would not help you on your quest. But Mikhail must be found first.”