The Seal of Thomerion

by Daniel Heck

  Was he knocked out?

  You can scarcely afford to ponder, for the second robed youth approaches from your left, channeling magical energies into a ball of deadly power. You pull your shield from your back and adopt a defensive stance. An impulse to retrieve your axe burns within you, but doing so would paint an even bigger target on your back, even if for an instant.

  “Behind you!” rings a female voice.

  You whirl about just as the robed youth charges, to find the swordsman driver in mid-swing. By some miracle of reflexes, your shield deflects the blow, and you use the opening to clench the driver around the waist and swivel in place by a half-circle.

  The youth fails to react in time; his spell discharges into the wrong target, and violet sparks shoot through the driver’s body from hair to boot. You let go so the energy has no chance to jump to you, and a memory of war flashes through your mind.

  Yet another pathetic meat shield.

  One enemy remains. The rage in the youth’s eyes has doubled. He throws his head back, roaring a challenge. He draws a dagger…

  At that moment, a familiar face barrels out from behind the carriage, locks the youth in a strangle-hold, and twists his head in a neck-breaking display of force. The sickening crunch is a fitting exclamation point to the battle.

  “Bartleby,” you cry, “Thank the gods you’re all right.”

  “We men of the cloth can handle ourselves hand-to-hand…” he brags, “…now and again.” He sees you arch an eyebrow.

  “Don’t let it go to your head,” you grunt, with a smirk.

  “Indeed, well fought, gentlemen,” Vermouth calls.

  You walk back toward the carriage, open the side door, and assist the mayoress out into open ground. Bartleby retrieves your axe and helps place Vermouth’s hands on a nearby tree stump, where with a mighty swing you break the chain binding her manacles.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she blurts.

  “What did these... monsters want from you, Miss Vermouth?”

  “I would have screamed for help the moment I saw you,” she explains, “If not for their threats of torture. For, you see, the Church of Thomerion has set into motion a collaborative plan, along with the Koraxon military, to invade the whole of Ambrosinia, and in time, take over the capital, Whitetail, itself.”

  Your eyes widen. Bartleby reels in shock. A moment passes.

  “Go on,” you implore.

  “They sought from me a keyword, by which to employ a cursed goblet called the Black Rose. I overheard from my captors that this item, once activated, allows the possessor to control any and all undead who were once marked with the Seal of Thomerion.” That explains quite a bit, you think, scratching your beard.

  Bartleby asks, “Does anyone else know the keyword?”

  Vermouth shakes her head.

  You ask, “Do you know where we can find this goblet?”

  “Since Sungaze has already fallen, I imagine the Black Rose is on its way to Koraxon, and to the hands of the orcbloods’ general, Grekk Del Arken. Without me, however, their plans are at least stalled for the time being.”

  “We shall hide you,” you offer, “some place where they shall never find you.”

  Vermouth shakes her head again. “They have their ways. If they found me once, they will pursue me at all costs, until…” Her voice trails off. Bartleby stands, and squints into the horizon.

  “You appear to be brewing a plan,” you observe.

  “What if…” the cleric begins, “We have the mayoress activate the Black Rose herself, and command the undead to step down? The invasion can be prevented from the inside out.”

  Your pulse races at the chance, your adventurous spirit refusing to be quelled, as it were. But you also frown, as more questions bubble up from the worry in your core.

  “Has Sungaze requested any help from Ambrosinia?” Bartleby asks. “Surely the king could mobilize troops to address the issue.”

  “All communication routes were cut off. Besides, even if we were to get through, King Patrick has proven mulishly stubborn, acting only after he sees that trouble is afoot in his own lands.”

  You flush with apprehension, knowing your plight has become tiny in perspective, but manage to ask, “Madam Vermouth, do you know if the seal and the disease associated with it can be removed?”

  The mayoress puts her hand to her chin. After a moment of thought, she muses, “I would visit what is called the Tree of Purity, whose berries I’ve been told have supernatural cleansing powers, on the island of Managhast. Should you choose to go there, tread lightly. The natives are friendly to no one but their own.”

  Given the length of a trip back, there isn’t enough time to both save Fedwick and assist in preventing the orcblood invasion. Can you trust these two to complete the job on their own?

  What do you do?

  I stay with the party on our way to Koraxon.

  I steadfastly pursue a cure for Fedwick.

  “I am sorry,” you grunt, crossing your arms, “but I find it hard to believe a word you’re saying.” A strong desire to head back home and reflect upon what to do next washes over you.

  “”Tis truth!” Grindle blurts.

  “I wish you luck on your journey.” You turn on your heel.

  Grindle’s face falls. “Sir,” he calls, after you have taken two steps. “I would encourage you to open your mind,” he says, “Open your heart, toward adventure, and the possibilities of an endless universe. Today, I pledged that, with or without someone to help me, I would seek my savior at all costs. May you find yours, as well.”

  You nod, respectfully.

  “I anticipate, however,” Grindle concludes, “that the journey will be difficult.” The halfling turns and skips down the road, whistling a random tune. His words sink into you.

  Open my heart? I did not know it was closed. Savior? I did not know it was I that needed to be saved.

  You process these thoughts further, and realize that it was a certain open-heartedness, many years ago, that led you to become friends with Fedwick in the first place. You sat once, after a harrowing training session, and stared into the sunset, wondering about the purpose of war. Fedwick approached, sat beside you, and wiped his brow. He stared where you stared. Nothing was said, and nothing need have been said. In many ways, you remember as you enter your hut once more and sit in an ancient rocking chair, this dwarf gently forced himself into your life and ‘claimed’ you, even though you were not ready.

  Having rejected multiple concrete leads, and now, diving within yourself in a philosophical sense, you become inclined to pursue a longer-term solution. Fedwick may die, you admit, but you get the idea that, to discover the cause, you must work from the inside out.

  You trek toward a dwarven temple, and speak with some men of the cloth within. Over several weeks, they counsel and guide you toward a life of devotion to your god, and Fedwick’s death soon appears to you as little more than part of the natural cycle of life, independent of the foul play. Life seems worth living once again, that is, until even stranger things than an evil sigil start to appear around town. Rumors hold that men in black and red robes are coercing Whitetail officials into less than noble behavior. You emerge from the temple one afternoon to find the streets littered with detritus; merchant carts have been overturned, a patch of trees incinerated. Townspeople mill about in confusion.

  Out of nowhere, a helmeted footman darts toward you and shouts, “We need help at the north gate! The undead attack!”

  You ready what is now your primary weapon, a talisman of the god of the mountains, and follow the footman as quickly as your legs can take you. At your destination, a dozen animated skeletons are locked in bloody combat with twenty armed guards and conscripts.

  You dive into the fray, and use your talisman to blast first one skeleton with divine energy, then a second. The remaining undead, however, begin to comprehend that you’re a threat, and soon, four of them surround you, ready to pounce and use their sho
rt swords to turn you into a pincushion.

  Whirling about from one creature to the next, you notice a distinctive dent in the skull of one particularly short skeleton.

  It couldn’t be.

  Someone you once knew from the military had taken a major injury to the head, in a quite similar spot, during a skirmish. You look into the skeleton’s empty eye sockets, and see someone there no one else could see.

  Fedwick?

  The skeleton shrieks, and strikes.

  Better opportunities await you. Try again!

  Go back to the previous choice, or…

  Restart from the beginning.

  You decide to grant Grindle the benefit of the doubt.

  “How would we find this prince?” you ask.

  “I have two ideas. I’ll explain on the way back into the woods.”

  “Just in case we need his help,” you mention, “Let me introduce you to an acquaintance of mine.” You lead Grindle back to your hut, explain your situation to Bartleby and invite him to join; he accepts with fervor. The three of you pack lightly, including a ration each and lamps.

  “I thought of something else,” you purport as you pass through the city gate, “You never did explain why you need my help in this quest.”

  “Ah, protection from those that would sooner eat me than help.”

  Bartleby arches an eyebrow. You remark, “And yet, you said earlier that you had wandered out here on your own, to gather spices.”

  “I hail from Fort Remnon, which is, as I’m sure you’re aware, surrounded by arid lands with little threat from wildlife. My naivete triumphed over basic logic, but it shall stand as a lesson learned.”

  This fellow, you think, becomes more perplexing by the moment.

  Many miles into the wilderness, the trees thicken, and vine growth slows your passage. Uninhibited, Grindle calls back to you,

  “We go to the druids, or we make the druids come to us. As for the first idea, I’ve discerned that they often communicate with each other via the carving of symbols in the shadowed sides of trees. If we actively search, we might piece together something valuable.”

  “And, the other plan?” you ask.

  Grindle stops, smirks, and retrieves a rusty, dented whistle from a pocket. It appears to have survived a trip to the underworld and back.

  “Trust me,” the halfling chuckles, “This shall get their attention.”

  And possibly the attention of any number of other things…

  What do you do?

  We search for druidic runes.

  I have Grindle blow the whistle.

  You force your hesitation down and away, and clear your throat.

  “M’lady,” you bellow, “We seek a fellow druid. The nation is in grave peril, but this person may have the power to…”

  “And why should we help you, of the foul city? You slay our brethren, the wolf, who you surely could understand has value to us.”

  Grindle shouts, “Hey! That thing was about to eat us alive!”

  “It was my companion,” she mourns, “He acted out of instinct. We were hunting together…” Her face drops, and she kneels.

  “Let me handle this,” you placate. Bartleby arches an eyebrow. You trundle toward the druid, and lay a hand on her shoulder. “M’lady. We are deeply sorry. If we can at all make it up to you…”

  The druid looks up at you. You smile, hoping against hope to project your sincerity. This remnant of mirth grows within, until it emerges as a tiny chuckle.

  “We could always… turn it into a nice fur coat,” you joke.

  Bartleby slaps his forehead. Grindle groans.

  “What?!?” the druid shouts.

  “Heh… I didn’t mean that, I…”

  The druid leaps backward and incants several crisp, foreign words. Vines and branches of all kinds reach out from the woods, wind themselves together and envelop the three of you. You struggle, but fall on your face as the foliage hoists you forty feet into the air, closing at the top like a net. Grindle shouts as he trips and his shiv drops through to the ground below. As you sit up, the druid snaps her fingers, and the vegetation mutates into solid stone. Even your axe couldn’t sever it now.

  “May this give you some time to think about your actions,” the druid seethes, before leaving your sight. Several moments pass.

  “That’s rather an understatement,” Bartleby grumbles.

  “Might you handle this predicament better than the first?” Grindle asks, with a sigh.

  Somehow, you don’t think you can.

  Your travels cease here, but don’t give up.

  Go back to the previous choice, or…

  Restart from the beginning.

  You wait patiently, until Bartleby points at Grindle, and whispers a few words. The halfling points at the cleric, then back at the druid, and shrugs and nods. He steps forward, and you breathe a sigh of relief.

  “My dear friend,” he intones, “may I say, what a lovely bauble you wear there. Is that amethyst?” He turns to wink at you, then back to the druid.

  The druid balks, then blushes, and handles the delicate necklace to which Grindle referred. It consists of a leather cord ending in a stone inset in copper, but you hadn’t even noticed she possessed it. “Yes,” she says, “it is indeed amethyst, but it is not just a bauble. It is magical, and grants the power to turn plant matter into stone.”

  You whistle.

  “How did you acquire it?” the halfling continues.

  “It was a gift, from our tribal leader. He once fancied me, although that time has long past. I know not from where he acquired it.” She arches an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?” Her voice sounds softer.

  “Out of curiosity, and because it suits you so well,” Grindle says.

  You and Bartleby exchange glances.

  “My thanks,” the druid purrs.

  The halfling has her in the palm of his hand now. “What are you called, m’lady?”

  “I am Roghet, master to the stag and cousin to the oak. My starsign is that of the crab, but those who know me would tell you I do not fit the sign.”

  “You mentioned your leader,” Grindle notes, “Would this person happen to have a large birthmark, one that stretches from his cheek to his neck?”

  Caution tinges Roghet’s smile. “How do you know that?”

  “He assisted me not long ago, and I wish to thank him in person.”

  You arch an eyebrow.

  Lies of omission seem to be quite the habit with this bloke.

  Roghet ponders, and turns back to your group with a smile. “I am sure he would not mind speaking with you for a moment. I will lead you to him, that is, if you do one thing for me.”

  “Anything,” Grindle replies.

  “Help me bury Midnight.” She indicates the wolf corpse.

  Your jaw drops, and a rush of remorse floods your heart. “Madam, if we had known he was your…”

  “You need not explain,” Roghet objects, “Wolves are naturally aggressive, and our tribe is still figuring out how best to calm them, to train them. That a few will fall is to be expected. And yet…”

  No one says a word for several minutes, as you use your axe as an improvised shovel to dig a gravesite. Roghet picks up the wolf, and sets it within the hole.

  “May the earth be your protector, and the winds carry your spirit to divine paradise.” She reaches for a flask at her waist, wipes a little oil on her finger, and anoints the creature upon the forehead. All four of you fill in the hole. You wipe your brow, and stand.

  “Now come. This way.”

  The dwarf druid beckons, and together you trek over hills the size of gladiatorial stadiums, around trees wider than the reach of four men, and even across a river colder than the arctic winds. At one point, a crocodile approaches, but Roghet incants a strange series of words that calm the beast into a dreary-eyed stupor, and you pass easily.

  Deeper into the wood, exotic species of plants, sprouting spiked blue fruits and striped flowers the
likes of which you have never seen before, surround you on all sides, as a white-crested eagle calls out from its perch high above. The utter majesty of this territory makes you long for simpler times, or at least times in which you felt a connection to something greater than yourself. Is that what this quest is about?

  I ponder this connection…

  Choosing to err, if indeed you err at all, on the side of caution, you wave off the halfling’s preposterous whistle plan.

  “Put that thing away,” you order. “We shall look for druidic runes.”

  Grindle’s face falls, and he turns the trinket over and over in his hand for a moment. With a final shrug, he pockets it. “Suit yourself,” he chimes, “I’m bound to have some other use for it sometime.”

  Leaves crunch underfoot as you wander about this shallow valley, examining the trees above, below, and from every which angle you can manage. Many hours pass, and your feet and legs begin to ache from the acres’ worth of exercise. A sunbeam blinds you as you round a corner to face westward, but as you squint, a strange contour in the bark of a mighty maple jumps out at you.

  “It’s high time we give this up,” Bartleby groans as he sits upon a log, “There must be something they know that we don’t.”

  “Not just yet, we won’t,” you say, “Take a look at this.”

  As the others converge toward you, you indicate two pairs of symbols, arranged in rows: an arrow points southwest, below which has been etched a thin groove with a single bend that doubles back upon itself, much like a serpent. To the right of these you find another arrow, this one pointing straight ahead, accompanied by an imperfect circle.

  Where do you go?