The Seal of Thomerion

by Daniel Heck

  Within your hut, you place two fingers on Fedwick’s jugular. His heartbeat runs cold and slow as molasses.

  I deserve the same fate, you conclude. Worse.

  You retrieve a large paring knife from your basin, and turn it over and over in your hand. The blade glints in the noontime sun, invites you, speaks to you. The handle sprouts two eyes and two legs, and jitters and twitches in an effort to bury the business end in your heart.

  Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing?

  You look around you one last time, cackle quietly, grip the knife with white knuckles, and comply with its wishes.

  Better opportunities await you. Try again!

  Go back to the previous choice, or…

  Restart from the beginning.

  The voice chills your spirit, and something within begs you to think twice. “Perhaps you’re right,” you whisper to the group, “Let’s keep going, and maybe we’ll find another way out of here.”

  Grindle and Bartleby nod, and you begin to push your way through the weird grasses spread across the tunnel. Just when you feel you’re making progress, a lack of ground betrays your next step; your momentum carries you downward and through the façade of foliage. The drop seems to take forever, but you finally hit the hard ground shoulder-first. As you roll to your back, burning lances of pain shoot throughout the whole of you, radiating out from what you’re pretty sure is a dislocated scapula.

  You look about. Bartleby took a similar spill, and sits in the pit beside you, blinking his eyes as blood trickles from his skull.

  “I’ll go get help!” Grindle shouts from above, having stopped short. You look up. You lie about twenty feet down, and that the smooth stone walls bear few, if any, viable holds. The halfling, carrying the party’s torch, dashes out of sight. Within seconds, you hear a high-pitched scream, followed by a sickening, biological crunch, like that of bone being twisted out of place. A voice croaks from within the dark:

  “What have we here? Intruders?” The same voice replies to itself, “Why, yes, indeed, my friend. These will make an excellent stew later, or perhaps we can trade them for more treasures.”

  “We shall have to deliberate.” The voice snickers and fades. You hear light footsteps, then all is quiet again. You check your pack with your good arm. While you have rope, you did not think to include a grappling hook of any sort. The prospect of escaping seems unlikely.

  The cleric groans, “I shan’t say I told you so, but…”

  You nod, and lay back upon your hip, to stare into the void.

  Don’t let evil win. Read another path!

  Go back to the previous choice, or…

  Restart from the beginning.

  Suspicious circumstances aside, you feel you must spare the holy verses this sacrilege. You step up to the altar and lay a hand on the book’s leather cover…

  Suddenly, your vision warps, and then fades to black. A moment later, you realize you’re sitting, and feel raw dirt wedge itself underneath your fingernails as you push yourself up. Complete darkness shrouds the area, and you cannot tell whether you were ever unconscious for whatever reason, or if so, for how long.

  “Bartleby?” you whisper into the void. The only response is a hollow clattering from a few feet away, which sends your pulse racing. You whip off your pack and fumble within it, feeling for the rough texture of flint. It’s near the bottom. You also grab a small torch, and with a strike of the flint on the ground, light a faint flame.

  You raise it just in time to illuminate a filthy, graying undead skeleton, wearing tattered leather armor. It stands and turns toward you, but stays where it is, its limbs swaying slowly. Its neck emits a loud crack as it tilts its head and flexes its jaw, apparently curious as to why you are here. Cautious, you grip the axe at your waist.

  What do you do?

  I try to communicate with the creature...

  I slash the skeleton to shards!

  I find a way out of the area.

  The man has clearly stolen from you. Surely you have time to call out the elf’s ridiculous lawlessness by confronting him.

  You close the distance between yourself and the treehouse, and with a quick double-step upon the first hempen rung, you confirm that the ladder will hold your weight. No reaction escapes the house.

  One rung after another, you ascend into and through the foliage. On two occasions you remind yourself to not look down, and yet do so after the second time, and your stomach turns.

  You reach up one final time, and your hand hits a wood panel. You pull yourself up, step toward the door and rap with force upon it.

  “Cur!” you shout. “Do you realize what you’re doing? I have half a mind to have you thrown in the town dungeon!”

  Silence. A moment passes.

  You test the door, and find it unlocked. You push the door open, and see beyond it a wood-walled chamber, decorated with banners and abstract sculpture. The old man is nowhere to be seen, although a back door appears to lead to another part of the treehouse. Most everything here is splayed with a spectrum of greens, ranging from kelly and olive to a hue reminiscent of the darkest jungles of the earth.

  “Squawk!”

  You jump, whirl about, and find yourself face-to-face with a caged parrot of some sort. Its orange feathers contrast with just about everything else. It shifts its weight around as it stands upon a peg and shouts at you,

  “Squat man lost his gold! Squawk!”

  And there it lay. Underneath the parrot, on the floor of the cage, unsullied and arranged in a neat pile, sit your five gold pieces.

  This is pure insanity, you think.

  You feel your pulse race and your face flush with unadulterated rage. You glance about one last time for the parrot’s guardian, clamp both hands upon the cage’s front door, undo the latch and reach inside. The parrot flaps its wings in alarm and attempts to scratch at you, but you are too quick. You wheel about, the coins now in your possession, and have almost made it to the door when you feel a sharp point pierce the back of your exposed neck.

  You reach behind you with your free hand, grip the parrot with all your strength and wrench it off, its serrated beak tearing a wide gash in your skin as it goes. You launch the bird against the back wall and, as it recovers, you slam the door behind you.

  You descend the ladder and sit on a large stone. Breathing heavily, you console yourself that at least now that that ordeal is over, you can move on. By the time you are ready to stand, however, the wound has begun to burn and swell in such ways as you were not aware lacerations could. You place two fingers to it and press until it stops bleeding.

  It is nothing, you assert as you tromp through the wood and rejoin your group. Already well under control.

  Bartleby welcomes you first. As you pass, he says, “I was going to ask how things went with the old elf, but I can’t help but notice the purple wound on your neck.”

  Purple?

  You avert your eyes, as if nothing has happened.

  “Let’s have the others take a look,” the cleric says. “Gentlemen!” he shouts, in the direction of Zander and Mikhail, who close the distance. Your elf companion winces upon taking in the sight. Zander struggles to keep himself composed.

  “What?” you ask.

  “We need to find help for you as soon as possible,” the ranger states, placing a hand on your shoulder.

  You arch an eyebrow. “Why?”

  “That’s the bite of a Venusian firebird, and its cure requires a specific spell be cast upon it every three hours for at least a week. Unless of course,” he continues in a low tone, “you prefer that its poison consume you from the inside out within hours, until there is nothing left of you but a quivering mass of dwarven jelly.”

  You turn toward Bartleby, who answers your questioning gaze, “I cannot do it alone, but the elven clerics here are quite capable.”

  “We could ask Demetrius Argent to help,” you beg, “That is, after all, why we are here.”

  “We don’t know
how long it will take to find him,” Zander insists, “or even whether he can help if we do. Your friend, Fedwick, was it? In truth, he seems to have the better of it now.”

  Your eyes become large as plates, as the gravity of the situation settles into your chest. The others help you find the nearest healer’s residence. The first half-day of recovery is not so bad, physically. Soon, however, you begin to feel as if your veins might combust, your dizzied mind becomes incapable of any rational thought and your muscles convulse uncontrollably. The poison has affected every inch of you, and while magic keeps it from killing you outright, you couldn’t bother to save Fedwick now, even if you had the willpower of the gods themselves. Mikhail and Zander proceed toward finding Argent on their own, and pledge to you that they will notify him of your plight, should they succeed.

  With further treatment, the symptoms eventually fade, and the physical anguish changes to mental. Your companions haven’t returned for you; you presume they fell victim to something within Argent’s compound. You ask around town, but no one can help. Little recourse presents itself, and fifteen days have now passed since your friend was diagnosed. Powerlessness and regret take control of you, but it is not until you trek back to Whitetail and into your stone hut that you break down completely.

  Your tears wet the gritty floor, for Fedwick’s chest no longer rises, nor falls.

  Your quest has ended... or has it?

  Go back to the previous choice, or…

  Restart from the beginning.

  The surrounding druids murmur amongst themselves. Roghet turns away, and wrings her hands.

  “But…” she sputters.

  “I promise you all,” Wyver interrupts, “These days, these years among you, this debt which I carry, they will not be forgotten. You have saved me. It is now time to repay you, by saving Ambrosinia itself!”

  The encampment cheers even more loudly than before. Wyver approaches Darby. The old man’s eyes become wide as plates.

  “Watch over them for me.”

  “Are you… sure of this,” Darby croaks, “my friend?”

  The leader looks into the old man’s eyes, and retrieves from the pocket of his tunic a circular talisman with a large fang inset within. Wyver gently sets the item into the hand of Darby, who grips it with care.

  “No,” Wyver answers, “But until now, has that ever stopped me?”

  His followers laugh and nudge each other knowingly.

  “Shall we depart, gentlemen?”

  “What is our plan?” Bartleby asks.

  “If you wouldn’t mind making a small side trip,” you request, “A friend of mine could use your healing abilities, your highness. After I escort you to the castle on the way, I shall press ahead and meet you at my home later. It is a stone hut with a hooked chimney, a quarter-day’s distance east of the capital.”

  The prince gladly agrees to help you, as time will allow. The four of you gather your supplies, and begin your trek. Looking over your shoulder, you ponder upon this culture, perhaps more in touch with what’s really important than the barbaric chaos in which you were raised.

  At that moment, out of the corner of your eye, you think you see a regretful scowl flash across the face of one certain female dwarven druid, just before she turns and retreats into the shadows.

  I arch an eyebrow, and move onward.

  “I don’t yet know how I shall present the problem,” you admit, “but I feel most comfortable pursuing the abbot’s blood.”

  Zander and Bartleby accept your decision. The ranger volunteers to get the gryphon feather, which leaves Bartleby with the pearl.

  “Gentlemen,” you continue as the group exits the compound altogether, “We shall next meet here, then?”

  Zander says, “Let us designate a day by which we should assume the worst, if one or more of us has not returned by then.”

  Bartleby offers, “Four evenings after the morrow?”

  You observe, “Zander has the longest quest. Better to make it six.”

  The others nod their agreement, and you shake hands with both.

  “May the fortune of the gods shine upon us,” you pray. You turn your back quickly, and frown in contemplation.

  Where to begin?

  You’d estimate that, of all demographics within Ambrosinia, the elves of the City of Storms know the most about monks. You ask around the city’s cultural centers, at a makeshift library, the merchant’s guild, and even a boarding house, but you fail to find even one soul that has ever traveled to the monastery. A kind old lady spends an eternity trying to recall the way, only to forget the question after her pet ermine skitters at her for food.

  You thank her, turn and shuffle down the road for many yards, staring at the ground.

  It makes sense that a monastery would be secretive, even mysterious, but this is getting out of hand.

  “Well, bust my britches and call me shorty,” rings a familiar voice.

  You turn to find a fellow dwarf, slightly taller than you but with craggier features and thinning hair, standing near a tavern door. He smiles at the sight of you, approaches and slaps your shoulder.

  “Paddy?” you marvel. “Padeeno Coberfitch?”

  You look into the dwarf’s grey eyes. Much has changed, but there it is, the same steely gaze that you remember boring into you when you were at less than your most disciplined, the gaze of the man who mentored you in your early years in the militia.

  “It is indeed you!” You cry out in joy, and embrace your visitor. He returns the affection, with some hesitation, and clears his throat.

  “Better to not let the townsfolk think I’ve gone soft,” he grumbles.

  “Pshaw,” you reply. Paddy laughs, a hearty chuckle from deep in his chest. You continue, “What have you been doing all these years? I had thought you had retired to the glorious beaches of Sungaze.”

  “I had,” he replies, “And this is the proof.” He jiggles his large belly in both hands, and laughs some more. “Yet, I have returned.”

  “For business? Pleasure? Family?”

  “Business, I am afraid. This is merely one stop on my journey to the Blue Eagle Cloister, where my assistance has been requested.”

  You rejoice, “I happen to be headed there as well! What would they need with an old fuddy such as yourself?”

  Paddy pauses, and answers, “Our spies have caught wind of bandits’ planning a full-scale attack upon the monastery grounds, to occur on the morrow.”

  Your smile vanishes.

  “King Patrick will not devote royal troops to the issue. I have already asked, but he has encouraged me and others to form a counter-force, consisting of anyone willing to participate.”

  “Who has joined thus far?” you ask.

  “Oh, some hill-hobbits, a few centaurs from surrounding prairie…”

  “I must join you.”

  Paddy reels. “But, your life will be in danger, son. We’ve already been through too much of this together. I would prefer…”

  “I will not take ‘no’ for an answer.”

  Paddy glares at you for a moment, and twists a lock of mustache hair between two fingers. Then, he bursts out in his loudest guffaws yet.

  “Ha! I taught you well. Then, come.”

  It is good to see a familiar face!

  Huffing fast and hard at the sight of Crolliver, you give in to the spark of rage he planted within you, letting it grow large.

  “This time, I shall do what I should have done the first time,” you shout as you tromp toward the lackey. The cleric grabs your arm and twists you about.

  “He is of no danger to us any longer,” Bartleby says, “Perhaps he has visited the temple to make amends.”

  You wrench free of your companion’s grip. “I care little for your lectures!” You turn, close the distance and cut off Crolliver just as he recognizes you and begins to run. The youth puts up his hands in supplication. “Worthless scum!” You launch a hard kick into his gut, and he collapses, unable to breathe.

>   “I surrender,” he wheezes from the floor, “No… tricks…”

  “Not good enough,” you yell. You think you see a portion of Fedwick’s ill countenance flash through your mind. A blood vessel pops somewhere in your head, just before you straddle the cur and smash your fist into his nose.

  “This is unacceptable!” Bartleby yells. “This is a place of worship, not battle!”

  “So was the warehouse. You said yourself to fight fire with fire,” you growl.

  “But what does revenge accomplish?”

  You barely hear the cleric’s pleas now, as you are too busy reducing Crolliver to a bloody pulp. For lack of an answer, Bartleby begins to panic, glancing back and forth between the two of you, but then locks his jaw, takes a step back and incants some mystical words. You look up long enough to note the concentration in his eyes.

  The fact that he is casting a spell at you, on the other hand, is a mere afterthought.

  Suddenly, you lose control of your muscles. You still lean over Crolliver, stuck like a statue with one leg sprawled to the side and an arm on your knee. You can still breathe, but try as you may, nothing else cooperates.

  The cleric bends forward, gazes straight into your eyes, and says calmly, “I will not be a part of this any longer. You are no better than the people you claim to fight.”

  You watch, helpless, as Bartleby helps Crolliver onto his feet and casts a healing incantation upon him. Crolliver, in turn, sets his hand upon your scalp for a moment, and you feel something burning there. The pair of them then turn and retreat to the inner recesses of the temple, leaving you there to stew.

  Somehow, this is the biggest betrayal of all.

  Eventually, the paralysis spell fades, but leaves you exhausted. You summon enough energy to drag yourself back to your hut, and stare down at Fedwick once more. You think you hear an unfamiliar, high-pitched voice echo something unintelligible, but soon deduce that it comes from within your mind.