by Daniel Heck
What appears to be a small conglomeration of tents stands about a league away, their front flaps flittering to and fro in the breeze. Standing in their exact center is a sizable pond. Fedwick’s plight resounds within you, imploring you not to succumb to a possible mirage.
What do you do?
I visit the oasis.
I continue on my journey to Fort Remnon.
Upon further observation, a blond troubadour of about forty years stands out as the group’s leader, as he frequently indicates specific points on a weather-beaten map in his hand. You approach and begin a bit of small talk, and within moments explain your situation, while trying to remain as low-key as possible. You point toward Vermouth.
The performer shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says, “We don’t want to risk any trouble.”
“At least let her speak to you,” you implore.
He cooperates as you lead him to Vermouth; they begin negotiating in hushed tones. Temptation to listen in strikes at several points, and once, you note that they smile slyly at each other.
They turn their backs to you for a brief moment. Then, the leader removes his cloak and helps Vermouth put it on. They wave the rest of both groups toward them, and upon the leader’s command, two other performers lend you and Bartleby their coverings as well. You drape the luxurious maroon fabric over your shoulders.
“Thank you,” you say.
“Go through first,” the blond replies, “And we shall soon follow. Once our business in Koraxon is complete, we shall spread the word in Ambrosinia about the plans of the church of Thomerion.”
“Our gratitude knows no bounds,” Titania says from underneath her hood.
The three of you take a place in line. Just a few parties now stand between you and the orcblood border patrol.
“What did you say to him?” Bartleby asks Titania.
“I told them I would pull some strings and arrange a royal concert. They’d never earned a gig that big in their lives, he said.”
You chuckle. “And, could you do that?”
“Not in a lifetime.”
You laugh out loud, hearty and deep.
You now approach the border pass itself. The biggest orcblood shouts, “Halt! State your business.”
“Our business is commercial,” Titania says with confidence. “We seek gems in the mountains of Koraxon.”
“If this is true,” the guard replies, “Then why do you carry no mining equipment?”
To this, none of you say a thing.
The orcblood steps closer. “And, your voice. It is familiar.”
You feel a bead of sweat collect on your brow.
“Remove your hoods,” the guard orders. He casts a menacing gaze first toward you, then the cleric, and back toward the mayoress, and flexes a fist as you hesitate. Another tense moment passes.
“Did you hear what I said?”
Suddenly, the brute reaches toward Vermouth and wrenches back her hood, virtually stopping your heart. You are about to shout an order to retreat when, by the evening light, you note a very different countenance than the one you expected: Titania’s face appears rounded, older, her hair a mix of splotchy red and purple, with silver at the roots.
The orcblood grunts, backs down, and scratches his head.
“Are you satisfied?” Bartleby asserts. “Manhandling a woman as if…”
“My apologies,” the orcblood mumbles, “Fine. Go on through, then. You may pass.” He hastily addresses the next party.
You focus on slowing your breathing and pulse as you proceed through the bottleneck, but wait until the orcbloods are well out of sight to request an explanation.
“In addition to the cloak, the band lent me a quick-change disguise potion,” Vermouth says, “but, goodness, remind me never to imbibe one for fun. Bitterest thing I’ve ever tasted.”
“I hope it wears off eventually,” Bartleby remarks.
“You would,” she flirts.
Write down the keyword CLOAK.
I arch an eyebrow.
“There’s something up here that I want. I shall need your help.”
“One moment,” you hear, followed by shuffling.
You wait for a few moments, and then glance over the edge. Bartleby stands below you, hands frozen to the stone. He looks straight into the wall, and squeaks, “This doesn’t come naturally to me.”
You grumble, “Well, why did you not say so earlier?” You remove your pack, anchor yourself against it, reach down and grip his hand. With the cleric’s left hand assisting the pull, together you begin to haul him over the precipice. A thin sheet of stone underneath his step gives way, but you brace harder and keep hold.
“One… last… try…”
He pushes up to just above the overhang, and crawls forward. Finally, you sit and rest. Bartleby cleans his flushed face, but soon sees the statue, and stands.
“Amazing,” he comments, “even if suspicious…”
You frown. “Just do it.”
Bartleby shrugs. He embraces your legs and hoists you up on his shoulders. You pluck the rubies from their place, and pocket them. The cleric sets you down just in time to dodge two jets of noxious green gas, which burst from the eye sockets and begin to fill the room.
Thinking quickly, you run toward the entry gap and launch yourselves from the precipice. You use your shield to absorb part of the impact, but Bartleby lands hard, skids and bumps across jagged stones and dirt and crashes into the far wall. You help him up, and look to see the fumes ballooning out into the primary cave space.
“Are you all right? Can you walk?”
“There’s no time to worry. Let’s go!”
You dive toward the wide passage opposite the cove, where a wind current disperses the gas, keeping it away from your tender lungs.
Write down the keyword RUBY.
I press onward.
Hearing mild snoring and an occasional rattling from within, you step into the wide passage. Within one wall is a decrepit prison cell, secured by rusted bars. The area reeks of mold, and flies have nested in a far corner, around a small mass of what once might have been meat.
“Psst….”
You raise your head. The sound came from further within the tunnel. You continue forward, and scan more cells similar to the first. Within the fourth cell lies a shirtless goblin in maroon trousers, who looks up at you. Splotches of dirt mar its craggy green face.
“What the devil?” you exclaim.
The goblin holds a finger to its mouth, and points farther down the hall. You turn, and see yards away an enormous black hound, asleep. Gore-splattered fangs protrude from its jaws, and with each strained exhalation, a string of spittle hanging from its lip grows by a bit more.
On the wall behind the dog hangs a golden key, on a brass hook. The goblin points at it, then at the lock on his cell door. His intent sinks in, but so does a memory of being called to restore the peace after goblin thieves ransacked the local merchant’s guild two years ago.
“Who are you to ask us to release you?” you whisper. “A monster, just as the rest of this place seems to be filled with.”
“Searching for treasure, I was! And captured, I became. But in exchange for letting me keep my life, I offered to work as a slave.”
Bartleby asks, “To whom did you make this offer?”
“A bishop of the Church of Thomerion! He works down here, and I saw him stash a wand in a secret location. It controls minds, it does!”
You and Bartleby exchange glances.
“I’ll lead you to it! If, please,” it begs, “you let me out…”
What do you do?
I attempt to get the key and recruit the goblin.
We refuse his pleas and try to find the wand ourselves.
You paste on a smile and blurt, “Why, I’d wish for a dragon’s lair’s worth of gold pieces. Who wouldn’t?”
Grindle grins wide, his eyes beaming. “My thoughts exactly! I like you already.” An idea seems to come to him, a
s his mouth twists into a big ‘O.’ “And, speaking of money, perhaps,” he says, pointing at you, “you would like to help me with something.”
You pause, and ask, “Such as?”
“You may not believe this,” Grindle says with a flourish of his hands, “but you should, for it is truth. I was not long ago all set to participate in a royal audience, an opportunity to speak with his highness King Patrick, so as to ascertain funds for the development of a new and wondrous invention!”
Skepticism begins to bubble from within, but you maintain a polite demeanor. “An invention, you say? Of what sort?”
“A steam-powered flying machine.”
You blink. A moment passes.
“What?”
“I know!” Grindle’s voice arcs into a high register. “Perhaps the greatest invention of all time, just short of being ready to be placed in the capable hands of the populace, but by your best guess, would you say I received the funding?”
You cross your arms.
“I did not.”
You let your jaw drop with fake drama. “No! In truth?”
“Absolute truth, swear on my grandmama’s makeshift grave.” He jerks an open hand straight up to seal the oath. “Just like with everything else, King Patrick felt he needed evidence, a working prototype, before acting upon the device’s potential. He just can’t see that he’s putting the cart before the horse!”
“Please, listen,” you interject, “I seek information about a Demetrius Argent, so unless you know something about him…”
“No, no, no. Hear me out. Hear me out,” Grindle begs. “For you see, I’ve deduced from extensive research, in-depth interviews and a rash of sheer luck that…” He pauses, and glances over his shoulder. “King Patrick is not the true ruler of Ambrosinia.”
You huff into your beard, and grunt, “You spout nonsense.”
“You want Demetrius Argent, you say? I can lead you to someone else, someone who will one day single-handedly transform this country and all who live in it into harbingers of technological and philosophical greatness! Someone who can spread happiness and health, prosperity and wealth throughout all corners of the land!”
Health? At this word, your ears perk, and your impatience fades.
“I saw him,” Grindle whispers, “I saw the true ruler.”
You scratch your head. “Explain.”
“Let us walk as we talk,” Grindle offers.
You exit the library, barely keeping up with the halfling, who skips across the cobblestones with unbridled energy. Outside the castle grounds, Grindle waves and smiles at a gaggle of merchants, then turns about and addresses you while trotting backward.
“I ventured out within the southern forest one day, to gather spices, but became hopelessly lost. At the cusp of dusk, in climbing over a hillock, my foot became caught in vines, and I wrenched my ankle something fierce.”
You grimace, but continue to listen.
“My cries of pain must have echoed throughout the wood, for within a few moments I saw a human, clothed in bear’s hides. Streaks of dry blood decorated his temples and forehead, and he used a spear as a walking stick. I was not sure whether he was ally or enemy. He held a finger to his lips, and I could not help but obey his request for quiet. He bent down toward me and held his hands over my foot, and I felt a rush of energy come from him and into me. Within seconds, I felt good as new. It took a moment to recover, and a desire to thank him overwhelmed me, but by the time I stood and turned, the man had disappeared.”
A powerful healer, indeed, you reflect.
Grindle pauses to hitch up his knickers, and reaches up to place a hand on your arm.
“This, my friend,” he continues in a serious tone, “Is how this all ties together: The man had the royal birthmark. You are aware of how, without exception, all descendants of King Jeremiah the Third, for three generations straight, have a large, somewhat trapezoidal imprint running from their cheeks to their necks, on the right side?”
“Indeed,” you recall, “it is hard to interact with King Patrick without noticing it.”
“I suspected his true lineage, and so questioned many who knew the royal family, even some cousins, aunts and uncles. It took some coaxing, but they shared just enough for me to piece together that King Patrick must have an older, long-lost brother, to whom the throne should have passed when their father died.”
You nod. “Young Wyver. They kept it quiet, but he contracted pneumonia and gave up the ghost when fourteen years of age.”
The halfling stops, stands on tiptoes and stares you right in the eye.
“So you say. My theory is that, for whatever reason, he faked his death, and became a man of nature.”
You arch an eyebrow.
“My mission,” he booms, insofar as a halfling can boom, “Is to find him again, and persuade him to take the throne.”
“So that you can complete your invention?”
“Exactly!” Grindle leaps over some stones in the road, diverting the attention of a pair of merchants and a few nearby children.
Your shock at this being’s ways of thinking nearly exceeds the bounds of verbal description. If you play along, though, you tell yourself, you may be able to employ the druid in question to heal Fedwick.
What do you do?
I dismiss Grindle and try something else.
We team up in an effort to find the druid.
If the gods test me, you think, I had better take the high road.
You thank the boy, and hustle back into your hut. “King Wyver, your highness,” you shout.
“Do not interrupt,” he chides, without breaking stature.
“You are needed at the castle. The undead attack there as well!”
“What?”
The others in the room glance at each other nervously, and at you.
Wyver says, “May I remind you that if I leave, the unfinished magic will leave Fedwick in such a vulnerable state that he…”
“I am aware,” you assert. “Go.”
“Are you sure of this, my friend?” Bartleby asks.
“Yes. Every minute counts, and I daresay Fedwick himself would advise the same. He was that kind of person.”
A moment passes. “Your country thanks you,” the king says.
Wyver retracts his hands, and the glowing aura disappears. Fedwick turns white as a ghost, and convulses, first mildly, then violently. You stand over him, helpless. No one says a thing.
You look up, and note that His Highness has already left the premises. You kneel and embrace your friend, attempting to calm him in whatever way you think your touch might get through. “Forgive me,” you whisper. Soon, he lay still. You feel for a pulse, and do not find one.
No further attacks from undead occur near or at your home, and by the end of the day, the scuttlebutt is that the capital is safe. Wyver arrived in time, you hear, to reorganize his personnel and push back the invaders, for now. Casualties were numerous, but could have been far worse.
A loyal servant, to the end, you reflect. But, at what cost?
You helped save Ambrosinia!
But is there more to the story?
Read through The Seal of Thomerion again to find out.
After you place the eight of clubs, Saul deals the Jack of clubs, and without hesitation places it above the seven of hearts. The grid now looks like this:
He then deals the four of hearts. You rule out the upper positions right away, as they don’t help, but the four could make a straight with the three, in either of two different places.
Where do you place the four of hearts?
Below the nine.
Below the eight.
If you turn your back to a man with a blade, your father used to preach, you might just find that blade in your back. Anticipating a mounted duel, you taunt the driver with a scowl. At this, he launches himself from atop his perch and knocks you both to the ground. Your horse rears, whinnies and flees into the woods. Meanwhile, scuffling breaks out at the o
ther end of the stopped carriage.
You’re still catching your breath as, a yard away, the driver stands and swings his sword. By pure reflex, you back up a step and raise your own weapon in defense, and the driver’s blow snaps the axe’s haft in two.
“Ol’ Rusty!” you shout, though there is no time to lament.
Out of the corner of your eye come several blinding flashes of light, followed by the thud of a collapsing body. Single-minded, you tear your shield from your back and charge the driver’s midsection. Both of you collapse into a heap once again.
You sit on his chest, shout, “Take this!” and rear back a fist, only to feel your arm caught by something. You struggle to disengage the grip of a robed hand for a moment, before you feel dark energy pulse through your entire body, causing pain on a scale you never before imagined possible. You roll onto your back to see all three men glowering at you.
The driver licks his lips, savoring the prospect of murdering a curious dwarf, for whatever purpose that may serve. Whether or not Bartleby suffered the same fate, at least you’ll shed the mortal coil knowing that you were correct: something was more than a little fishy about this “royal” carriage.
Your quest has ended... or has it?
Go back to the previous choice, or…
Restart from the beginning.
“Help!” the cleric shouts.
Thinking quickly, you steer your horse toward the rear of the carriage, where the men have almost pulled Bartleby off his mount. You draw your axe, and with a plunging underhand swing, bury its blade in the chest of the taller of the robed youths, who screams and collapses.
The momentum, though, causes your horse to collide with Bartleby’s; their legs entangle and they throw you both to the ground. You roll with the fall and stand, but Bartleby now lies sprawled out, a few yards away, his limbs spread in an awkward pose. You frown.