by Daniel Heck
Darby hands both men a staff. “Are both combatants ready?”
They nod. Wyver frowns in concentration. A smirk emerges upon the cleric’s face.
“On my mark,” Darby shouts. “Three. Two. One,”
The tension burns in your veins like lava.
“Begin!”
Both men lurch forward to make the first move, their staves clashing in a stalemate. Bartleby twists the knot of arms and wood sharply to his right, but Wyver compensates, keeping his feet planted. Not a drop of worry crosses the druid’s brow. Wyver draws back, and the two circle each other for a moment.
“Go, Bartleby!” Grindle calls out. “You’ve got this!”
“Wyver will pound your man into the ground,” Roghet growls.
“Did someone ask your opinion?” the halfling says.
The dwarf’s face falls, but she quickly turns back and resumes cheering for her tribal leader.
Wyver swings his staff’s end in an upward arc; it crashes into Bartleby’s jaw, and the cleric reels backward. He shakes off the blow and counters with a solid shot to the druid’s gut. Now having turned in a complete circle, the combatants tie themselves together in a breathless tangle once again, and shove and strike repeatedly, with no end in sight.
You realize you’ve been chewing your fingernails, and spit out flecks of dirt while keeping your gaze locked on the action.
Wyver moves in for a jab, which Bartleby dodges. The opening allows the cleric to hook his opponent’s near leg with his staff, which throws off the druid’s balance. The cleric leans forward with all his weight, and Wyver’s feet slide across the wood, breaking off massive splinters; the pair now dangle at the very edge of the arena. A druid spectator gasps.
Wyver reaffirms his grip, steps over Bartleby’s staff and swings his own weapon across his body, smacking the cleric in the back. Your combatant sails off the front end of the stump, but catches just enough of Wyver’s outstretched limbs that they collapse together within a pile of ivy.
The match is a draw. A cacophonous roar erupts from the crowd, in congratulation to both sides, for a fight well-fought.
The men stand, and brush themselves off. “Not bad, for a man of the cloth,” Wyver jokes, extending his hand.
Bartleby laughs, and they shake. “Nor you, for a man of peace.”
Wyver turns toward you. “I like how you think. As pledged, I shall return to claim the throne.”
Now we’re getting somewhere.
“I don’t know what it could indicate,” you say, “but I would feel better if we pursue the westbound path.”
Bartleby says, “No objections here.” The halfling nods his acceptance as well.
The trees and grass begin to thin as you trek in this direction, spanning outward into a beige, sun-beaten prairie. Wisps of cloud drift by overhead, as a field of wheat stalks adjacent to the path dances and bends in the breeze. The path takes a sudden downturn. Many yards ahead and just to the north, you see a circular door, built into the ground at an awkward angle.
Grindle begins to skip down the hill. You struggle to keep up without letting the tall vegetation smack you in the face. The halfling stands over the door, and knocks upon it three times. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
You chide, “Quiet, small one.”
Grindle sulks, and steps off the hatch.
You approach, and look about you. The three of you are the only signs of life out here, beyond the high-pitched trill of a far-off tanager. Without a word, you attempt to lift the hatch, and find it unlocked. Underneath it lies a series of ancient steps that descend into the ground. Not a glimmer of light escapes the passageway.
You call in, “Is anyone there?”
The only response you hear is the echo of your own voice.
You stand, and frown. “What do you think, gentlemen?”
What do you do?
We explore the passageway.
This is a waste of time. We go back to where we were earlier.
As Roghet stops to consult a pattern of runes etched into a tree trunk, Bartleby closes the distance, and adopts a look of curiosity.
“Would you ever have guessed?” he inquires.
You smirk. “Not in the slightest,” you reply.
“Everyone, stay here until instructed otherwise, if you please,” the druid requests. She glances at the sun, and retreats further into the wood.
Bartleby sits down on a mossy rock. Grindle leans on a large birch and cleans his shiv.
The cleric asks you, “Tell me more about Fedwick, if you would. Before you called for me, I had met him only in passing.”
“Ah, Fedwick. He deserves such a kinder fate,” you reflect. “For his role in my life is best described as impactful. Steadfast, humorful. His advances towards women,”--you stop to chuckle--“Daresay, not what you would expect. But, his personality is varied. He is as likely to indulge in anger as in mirth. We would get in trouble as children, with the neighbor farmers, with the elven minority, but then again, what child does not? The key was, we did it together.”
Solemn, Bartleby puts a hand on your shoulder. “I saw a life in his eyes, my friend,” he says, “even as they were closed. A life paralleled in your eyes. I’ve come to believe you want this more than anything.”
You look aside, and nod. A moment passes.
Roghet reappears. “Come,” she says.
The group pushes onward for many more yards, until you encounter a wide clearing, with an enormous tree stump at the very center. The foliage seems to be at its very tallest here, and molds the cloud-shielded sun’s rays into a muted cylinder of light. As you look around this hallowed space, only the chittering of squirrels meets your ears.
At that instant, a dozen beings in clothing similar to Roghet’s slowly emerge from the wood. They have bows drawn and arrows nocked, but have not raised the bows to fire. You grip the axe at your waist, but hold any action. By all indication, these druids don’t know why you’re here.
“Roghet, you know better than to bring outsiders here.”
The authoritative voice belongs to a tall human male, who stands at the opposite end of the clearing. He wears a pelt of rich brown fur about his shoulders, and his temples are streaked with mud. A patch of bright red stretches from his right cheek downward. As he approaches, his countenance softens to that of sudden cognition.
“You appear familiar,” the man says, at Grindle.
The halfling grins, hops excitedly, and counters, “As do you!”
“These men wish to thank you for your help,” Roghet explains.
“Oh, but there is so much more to it than that!” the halfling shouts. “Sir Wyver, your highness. You must take the throne! I beg you…” Grindle closes the distance and begins kissing the druid’s feet. Bartleby rolls his eyes. Roghet huffs.
By the gods. What happened to the subtlety that got us this far?
Wyver clears his throat, and crouches. “I recall healing you. I am glad to have been of service, but… how do you know my real name?”
“It’s… a long story,” you admit.
“Our small but affectionate friend here,” Bartleby explains, “has uncovered a plot of grave import, on the part of the church of Thomerion.”
“Thomerion?” Wyver scratches his chin. “That cannot be good.” He looks up and about, and orders his fellow men, “Stand down.” They place their bows on the ground, and begin to huddle in clumps and talk amongst themselves. You feel yourself breathe easier.
“Let us sit.” At Wyver’s invitation, you all take places upon the large stump. “You gentlemen obviously know my history. But you must also know that I cannot grant your request. This is my life now, connected as it is to the world’s creations, not to stone and castles and royalty.”
“Why did you leave?” you ask. “There are so many people who would appreciate knowing that you are still alive.”
“When I was thirteen, a friend and I had snuck out of the castle, and were roughhousing near th
e river. We slipped, and both tumbled into the water. I emerged to find he had hit his head on a large stone and was floating, unconscious, along with the current. I was too weak to pull him to safety, and his body was found later by a fisherman. My jealous brother, Patrick, saw the opportunity and threatened to proclaim to all who would listen that I murdered this boy. So, I ran.”
You listen, enraptured. Grindle’s eyes twinkle with amazement.
“Over time, however,” Wyver continues, “I came to accept being a man of the world. The druids took me in, and taught me so very much.” He casts a grateful look at Roghet, who smiles. “It is peaceful here. The woodland creatures embrace us, and we them.”
You scratch your beard. “You have no feelings of bitterness or resentment toward your brother, of any kind? I find that hard to believe.”
Wyver shakes his head.
Bartleby argues, “Would you have the kingdom, which includes these lands, fall to the likes of hordes of undead, should your brother choose to rest on his laurels?”
“Undead?”
Grindle nods with fervor. The three of you look at each other, then back at Wyver.
“I just… don’t know. I put my trust in the universe.”
Grindle remarks, “Would you put Roghet in harm’s way?”
“What do you mean?”
“You gave her a valuable artifact. I can even see now that she means the world to you.”
Roghet blushes as Wyver glances at her, eyes shining.
Grindle continues, slow and serious, “Sir, the church is targeting dwarves. In revenge for the Battle of Bladepass. I’ve heard all of this firsthand, and together, we can put a stop to it.”
Wyver’s smile disappears. He looks about, first at the halfling, then at Roghet, then up at the clouds. He stands. Several moments pass.
“Then, I shall come with you.”
The surrounding druids turn towards him and murmur excitedly.
“Upon one condition.”
You stand in turn. “And that is?”
“I need you to prove that you can get me to the castle safely, and besides, I’m a touch bored. Choose one of your own to fight me.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Don’t worry, we won’t use anything lethal. Darby,” he says toward a thin, balding druid, “fetch me the padded quarterstaves, will you?” Darby nods, and shuffles off. “This is our arena,” Wyver proclaims, gesturing downward. The stump appears barely fifteen feet in width. “Whoever knocks the other off first wins. No striking with anything but the staff, although pushing is allowed. And no outside interference, from either end. Understood?”
A smirk crosses your face. This might be a bit of fun, and if the druid’s dismissive tone is any indication, he just wants to kick off some rust, and will participate in your quest whether you win or not. Nevertheless, you feel as if you should take the decision seriously. You’re the toughest to knock over, while Grindle is easily the nimblest, and Bartleby is probably somewhere in between.
Who will fight Wyver?
Bartleby will fight.
I choose Grindle.
I’ll take him on myself.
“Someone must be here,” you insist, “He or she must be busy at the moment.”
Bartleby protests, “This could be their home. Would you appreciate it if a group of strangers burst into your hut back in Whitetail?”
You glare at Bartleby, and cross your arms.
“Besides,” Grindle adds, his eyes darting about, “I was pretty sure druid healers didn’t live in random holes in the ground.”
“It’s all we’ve found so far,” you counter. “We’re going in.”
The others roll their eyes, but acquiesce. You pull a torch, flint and steel from your pack, light the torch and begin the descent.
The halls here appear to have been carved out of the natural soil, equidistant and precisely straight, down to the millimeter. You’ve traversed only a few hundred yards when the path curves to the right. Ahead from there, the floor has changed. Instead of dirt, the entire area is covered with dead grass, moss, and other foliage. The radius of illumination fails to reach far enough to tell where this passage leads. You extend a hand out to your side, instructing the group to halt.
In the direction from which you came, you hear humanoid muttering. Judging by its low-pitched repetition and tenuous tempo, you’d guess someone down here is incanting a spell. The voice sounds alternately phlegmy and tight, dry, as if constricted.
“How did anyone get behind us?” the halfling whispers.
Bartleby moans, “That doesn’t sound like someone we want to meet, if you ask me.”
Your instinct pulls you in two directions at once.
What do you do?
We turn around and follow the voice.
We continue in the same direction.
“The small one shall compete,” you bellow. The murmuring among the surrounding druids intensifies.
Grindle’s jaw drops. “Me?” he says, “Why me?”
“Trust me,” you reply with a smirk, “You can do this.”
The halfling glares at you with his hands on his hips. “That doesn’t answer my question!”
You chuckle and take a seat, feeling tempted to pull something from your pack on which to munch while you take in the show. Bartleby nudges you with his elbow, and smiles.
“Is this in return for not telling you the whole truth earlier?” the halfling cows, barely gripping the staff as Darby hands it to him. “I think we’re more than even.” Wyver, also now armed, takes his position. His shadow darkens the whole of your companion.
Darby grumbles, “Are both combatants ready?”
Wyver nods with force.
Grindle gulps, but readies himself.
Darby counts off, “Three. Two. One,”
The tension of the moment dances off your skin like snowflakes.
“Begin!”
Wyver swings first, his staff bearing down upon the halfling’s legs, but Grindle jumps a yard into the air. The druid recomposes himself, steps forward, and strikes again, but his target ducks, barely in time; the halfling’s hair flaps to one side from the breeze.
Grindle forces a half-smile. “Can’t catch me, nature boy!”
He takes short stabs at the druid, followed by roundhouses, but Wyver parries them all with nary a caught breath. “Hold,” the prince commands, “A wolf!” He points over Grindle’s shoulder.
“Where?” Grindle shouts. He whirls about, just long enough for Wyver to bury the end of his staff between the halfling’s shoulder blades and push. You smack your forehead as your combatant flies forward and lands face-first in a pile of clover. The observing druids erupt in raucous laughter and cheers.
You feel your face fall along with your spirit. Only Roghet moves to help the halfling up. “Thank you,” Grindle says to the dwarf as he brushes foliage off his tunic. Roghet blushes, but says nothing.
“Pathetic,” Wyver groans. He jumps off the stump-arena.
Bartleby defends, “He did the best he could.”
“I speak about you.”
You reel as you look up to find the druid’s gaze boring into you.
“I...” you sputter, “What could you possibly mean?”
“It speaks volumes,” Wyver continues, “that you would endanger the life of the smallest among you, even one that I have encountered before and helped at the time, for little more than your own amusement. Or did you really think he had a chance against me?”
“Endanger?” you counter, “Your weapons were harmless.”
“But you had a concrete goal in mind, did you not? I cannot help but wonder if you would do the same to protect yourself in a potentially lethal situation. You are careless, and it is for this reason that I cannot accompany you back to Whitetail, after all.”
Roghet squeals and claps her hands. The three of you look at each other and then back at Wyver in shock.
“Surely, you must reconsider,” Bartleby implore
s, “Did we not make clear what we are up against?”
“May the gods’ favor shine upon the royals as they battle,” Wyver says, “Meanwhile, our society shall persist in peace. Come, friends.”
The three of you watch as the druid encampment flows out of the clearing and disperses among the surrounding wood.
Grindle frowns at you. “I’ve never been so humiliated in all my life,” he mutters. “Good day to you, gentlemen.” While the halfling’s words sink to the pit of your stomach, he turns his back on you and sets out toward the path back to town.
You call, “Forgive me, Grindle…I…”
Bartleby puts a hand on your shoulder.
“Not you, too,” you grumble.
“Let him be. It is what it is.”
You dislodge a rock with your toe, and look up to the heavens. Several moments pass before the halfling fades out of sight.
Bartleby says, “The important thing now is that we start over.”
“Let us check one thing,” you suggest, “when we get back to Whitetail.” Your guilt softens a bit, but far from completely, as you trek. The first building you enter is the Pig’s Foot Inn and Tavern, but the two men from whom you heard the initial lead are nowhere to be found.
You retreat to your hut and retire after much contemplation. Sleep comes in fitful bursts, marred by the knowledge that your actions so far have resulted in so little.
You meet up with Bartleby again the next morning, and decide to investigate the supposed temple, a warehouse-like structure west of town, after all, but you find little there but old crates filled with useless junk and a whole lot of dust. Now that both leads are dead, the idea that your timing, in tandem with one frivolous indulgence, will kill Fedwick begins to eat away at your sanity.
Weeks pass, during which you ask various strangers for anything helpful, and never come an inch closer to self-forgiveness. Bartleby attempts to intervene, but you push him away, enraged. One afternoon, you feel a twinge of pain in the back of your head, followed by overwhelming relief, as if something there snapped in two.