The Seal of Thomerion

by Daniel Heck

  Is this rage sending me over the edge?

  Later that night, stinging lances of pain shoot through your forehead. You glance at the bottom of a silver cup, where your reflection reveals the combination of a skull and dagger branded right between your eyes. Sweat has accumulated in every wrinkle, and your eyes run bloodshot.

  Hrmph.

  You cross your arms, and blink forcefully.

  They say, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

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

  Go back to the previous choice, or…

  Restart from the beginning.

  You glance at your companions, who smile knowingly. Without a word, you leap onto the stump and put up your fists in a mock fighter’s stance. “That’s the way,” the druid says, and Darby hands each of you a padded staff. The spectators’ murmurs intensify.

  “Are both combatants ready?” Darby shouts.

  You nod, and growl. Wyver bares his teeth.

  “On my mark, then. Three, two, one….”

  The rush of your military years resurfaces, and flushes through your veins like invigorating ice.

  “Begin!”

  You strike first, a wide arc at Wyver’s neck, which he parries with some difficulty. He steps aside and brings his staff down upon your shoulder. You wince and drop to one knee, but push off from there and charge Wyver’s midsection. Your weapon connects with his sternum, and you hear the air whoosh out of him as he grunts in pain. The commotion in the crowd ebbs with the action, loud, then quiet, then loud again.

  “Are you going to let him get away with that?” Roghet shouts.

  “He’ll get away with that and far more!” Grindle taunts.

  Roghet raspberries in the halfling’s direction, but he waves it off.

  You now both breathe heavily, and circle each other for several moments. Wyver’s fierce jab breaks the stalemate, but you twist out of the way and counter with a backhand strike, which the druid catches in a bare hand. You shove away from his hip, neutralizing his staff as well, and become entangled in a net of wood and sweaty limbs.

  The crowd cheers voraciously, and someone within utters a series of primal yelps. A breeze cools your brow as the two of you separate.

  It’s time to finish this, you think. But how?

  What do you do?

  I unleash a flurry of blows upon Wyver’s chest and head!

  I attempt to trip him with a leg sweep!

  I would not want to be in his position, you reflect. While your feelings don’t quite approach pity, the longer you watch the lackey, the clearer the extent of the church’s unhappiness with him becomes.

  You whisper to Bartleby, “Let’s see what we can do for him.”

  Bartleby nods and remarks, “I hoped you’d say that.”

  The youth has partially exited when you call, “Crolliver.”

  He halts, pauses, and says over his shoulder in a hoarse voice, “What do you want with me now?”

  “The time for fighting has passed,” the cleric says.

  “Of course,” you add, “We still have unanswered questions.”

  Crolliver turns toward you and slowly shuffles back down the center aisle. When he looks up, first into your eyes, then the cleric’s, his tears shine in the dim light.

  “I thought I could make a difference,” he says. “I thought that even if they didn’t appreciate me now, they might appreciate me someday. That is all I ever sought. Appreciation, belonging, commonality. A sense of camaraderie. In those senses, the church of Thomerion is not all that different than either of yours, you should know.”

  You and Bartleby exchange glances.

  “But,” the youth continues, “no more. I will not stand for them. I came to this temple today to pray, to perhaps find a new direction.”

  You smile. “We can help you in that goal.”

  Crolliver reels. “You would do that? After what I did to you? Knowing who I am, who I was?”

  Bartleby affirms, “Indeed.”

  Joy saturates the youth’s countenance. “Bless you both! Bless you both, to the ends of the earth and back again.”

  The cleric leads you and Crolliver to the inner recesses of the temple, where, with the help of a couple magical spells, he treats and dresses the youth’s wounds. After just a few minutes, Crolliver looks a lot better, and his voice carries energy once again.

  He stands. “Thank you, good sirs. Thank you so very much.”

  You nod curtly. Bartleby smiles.

  “What can I do,” he continues, “to return the favor?”

  “As stated earlier,” you purport, “we seek those responsible for inflicting the seal of Thomerion upon a friend.”

  “Ah, yes. I will tell you everything I know. Let us talk over a light libation.”

  You exit the temple. Not a cloud mars the sky, and the noontime sun warms your skin as the three of you trek to the Pig’s Foot Inn and Tavern. The youth orders a brew for each of you, and you pull up some stools at a centralized table. The place seems quiet.

  “Now,” Crolliver asks, “What is your friend called?”

  “Fedwick, of the Canterbury clan.”

  “I know not, of all within the church’s ranks, specifically who harmed him, but I can tell you why. Bear with me, for some background is in order. All will be explained.” He takes a large glug from his tankard. “Koraxon now seeks revenge for the Battle of Bladepass. Most people, including many historians, ignore this battle because they do not know what truly occurred there.”

  Crolliver’s tone takes on a dramatic tinge. “But, in the thick of the fighting, as the momentum began to sway back toward the orcbloods, a dwarven lieutenant looted a valuable goblet from the corpse of a defeated barbarian. Some necromancer had forged it in the hue of midnight, and infused it with dark magic, but this magic was not to be discovered for many centuries.

  “This lieutenant entitled the goblet the Black Rose, and thought little more of it than as a trophy. He passed it down to his daughter, and she sold it to a collector, and she to another, and so forth. As such, it has been touched by many hands. Its magic, however, eventually corrupted those hands, not to mention the bodies they were connected to, for the goblet had taken on a semblance of sentience, and rebelled against its dwarven possessors.”

  Your eyes widen. You and Bartleby teeter at the edge of your seats, listening intently.

  “Only recently did the Church of Thomerion gain wind of the Black Rose’s resurfacing, and so performed some research. They discovered that the item grants the ability to control all undead whom, in life, were at any point marked by the Seal of Thomerion.”

  Worry tinges your brow. Fedwick…

  “What do they want with undead?” Bartleby asks.

  “That brings me around to my original point,” Crolliver replies, “The church has long sought to establish a theocracy in Ambrosinia, and has entered into an alliance with the Koraxon military. Once the orcblood generals have regained control of the Black Rose, they plan to stage a full-scale invasion, employing a vast army of undead.”

  You shudder at the thought, so violently that a few drops of your drink splash from your tankard onto the table.

  “In fact,” the youth finishes, “I am surprised they have not yet forced me to join that army’s ranks, given the capabilities of some bishops regarding remote magic. I suspect your spells,” he says this to Bartleby, “cleansed me of the mental link they implanted when I joined.”

  “They punished you,” you comment, “but they would go so far as to kill you, one of their own servants?”

  “The sacrifice of the one expedites the goals of the many.” Crolliver recites this as if he has heard it many times over. He takes another drink. Several sober moments pass.

  “What, then,” Bartleby asks, “do we do now?”

  Crolliver says, “A key superior is to rendezvous with the orcblood general Grekk Del Arken quite soon. I suggest we intercept the Black Rose, by traveling to Koraxon and disrup
ting their plans.”

  “Can this bishop,” you ask as tension rises in your chest, “remove the Seal of Thomerion?”

  “Indeed. We shall do what we must to ensure his cooperation.”

  A tinge of evil flashes through you. You smirk as you rub your hands in anticipation.

  Maybe revenge isn’t so wrong after all.

  You hold the wand out over the slumbering bishop, wave it from side to side, and say in full voice, “Abracadabra!” Upon the last syllable, the chunk of wood explodes in your hand, catches the bedsheets on fire, and wakes the bishop. Pain sears through your entire being. You clutch your arm, now blackened and disfigured.

  “By the gods,” Bartleby shouts, “A cursed keyword!” He rushes to your side, and chants a healing spell.

  “What is going on here?” the bishop shouts as he dashes from the burning bed and bolts toward the exit. The goblin attempts to stand in his way, but the bishop shoves his palm into its face, bowling him over. “How dare you!” the man shouts. He leaves the room and slams the door behind him, after which you hear the thunk of something heavy from outside.

  The goblin stands and approaches the door as smoke begins to fill the bedchamber. Bartleby pulls open his waterskin and spreads water upon parts of the flame, putting them out while other parts flare and enliven. Books alight, and the hellfire spreads further as the goblin pulls with all its might upon the doorknob. “He’s blocked us in!” it shouts.

  You search in panic, and manipulate objects within the room with your good hand, but unlike in the hexagonal chamber, there appear to be no secrets or other ways out from here. Within moments, you can barely breathe, and one by one, the three of you pass out from lack of oxygen, saving you the agony of burning to death.

  Cruel fate has taken your life. Rise again!

  Go back to the previous choice, or…

  Restart from the beginning.

  You figure the three of you can handle yourselves, should even the worst happen. As Grindle looks about with a cognizant eye, you nod toward him. “Have at it.”

  Grindle cackles with glee, raises the whistle to his lips and inhales. You cup your hands over your ears as he blows, but instead of a shrill blast, the instrument emits a gurgling coo, as if calling to pigeons. The sound carries a few yards from where you stand and then dies.

  The halfling frowns, and pauses.

  “Intriguing…”

  He takes an even larger breath, and blows so hard into the whistle that his cheeks flush. This time, the call’s volume sends it ringing throughout the wood, although it maintains its peaceful tone.

  You stand, and wait. And, you wait some more. Bartleby shifts his weight from foot to foot. Grindle scratches his head.

  You hear sudden rustling, and a wolf emerges from the brush.

  “Well, isn’t that dandy,” Bartleby groans.

  “We’ve got it outnumbered,” you observe. Yet, it slowly approaches, and bares its fangs. A growl rumbles from within its core. You wield your axe, but hold your action. The stalemate continues for what seems like ages. The wolf barks twice. Bartleby holds his hands out in front of him as if to placate the creature, which now stands mere yards away. The halfling, on the other hand…

  You look about. “Wait,” you say, “Where did Grindle go?”

  You leap out of your skin as a familiar body assaults the wolf from underneath a patch of moss, and sinks a shiv into its flank before it can react. The wolf howls in pain and falls to the ground. Shaking the camouflage from his hair, Grindle straddles the creature and finishes it with a slash to the throat. He stands, breathing heavily, and wipes a spurt of wolf blood from his chin.

  “Nice work,” you exhale, stunned. You put away your axe.

  A moment passes.

  “Once again,” the priest notes, “Not to complain, but we find it hard to believe you need protection out here. You’ve proven you don’t.”

  “Gentlemen,” the halfling protests as he cleans his blade with a large oak leaf, “Where is your sense of adventure?”

  In an instant when the setting sun catches the shiv just so, you notice an insignia carved where the hilt meets the blade: An encircled red skull, pierced at a forty-five degree angle by a dagger.

  By the gods…

  You tackle the halfling, who looks up at you, bewildered. “Hey!”

  You grip the cur by the collar, and your voice emerges as a guttural roar, “What is this?” You wrench the shiv out of his hands. “This is the seal of Thomerion! Explain yourself!”

  “I…I…” Grindle starts shaking.

  “What have you to do with them? Tell me!”

  You feel a hand on your shoulder. Bartleby intones, “Peace, my friend. If he had wanted to harm us, he could have done so long ago.”

  You remind yourself to breathe, and look back and forth between the cleric and the halfling. While holding your face within inches of his, you warn Grindle, “If you run, I swear you’ll have seen your last days.” With great reluctance, you stand, and help the halfling up.

  Grindle brushes himself off. “I once belonged to the church, but no more. That knife is my only remnant of those days. I had hoped the bishops would restore order within its ranks, but the infrastructure became more chaotic over time, until plans began being hatched.”

  “Plans? What sort of plans?”

  “Plans to replace the king with a theocracy, designed to spread the church’s chaos to every corner of the land.”

  Your eyes widen. Bartleby puts a hand to his forehead.

  “I only overheard a few bits of conversation about the topic, and about the possibility of collaborating with the Koraxon military. After all, the church by itself is too weak in numbers to ever accomplish something so drastic.”

  Bartleby crosses his arms. “So, our deceptive little friend, what are you really after?”

  The halfling traces a line in the dirt with his toe. “The truth is due. There is no invention. I seek the druid prince in order to bring him to his rightful place of power, for he, unlike his stubborn brother, will believe me when I profess to what I have witnessed, and mobilize troops to prevent the invasion.”

  You ask, “Why did you not just tell us this in the first place?”

  “If you knew I was involved with the church, would you have chosen to associate with me? Earning trust is impossible around here.”

  His voice diminishes as he speaks, and gazes off to one side. You and Bartleby exchange glances. An unwitting smirk crosses your face.

  “You have helped us,” the cleric says. “That is enough.”

  Grindle exhales, and collapses with relief. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you for not killing me, good sirs!”

  “I also thank you for not killing him,” a calm voice intones. You look about. It sounded as if it came from within the wood.

  A dwarf, dressed in furs and leather, peeks out at you from behind a large maple. Her dark brown hair drapes across her shoulders in thick braids. She strikes you as quite beautiful, even as her deep brown eyes squint at you in suspicion. She carries a spear, but little else.

  “For,” she continues, “nature determines our fate, not man.”

  Bartleby says, “Well, this is most fortunate. Perhaps you can…”

  “What are you doing in our homelands?” the druid interrupts.

  Any semblance of attraction to this person within you fades. It appears we’re hardly out of the woods when it comes to meeting hostile creatures here, you think.

  What do you do?

  I attempt to explain ourselves.

  I stall, and hope that someone else says something.

  “We shall have to be able to pass the border security,” Crolliver notes, “but, I have an idea. Come with me.”

  The three of you finish your brews and exit the tavern. From there, you follow the youth to a modest home in the southwest quadrant of town. He implores you to wait outside, and enters.

  You turn, and stare into the distance.

  Bartl
eby lays a hand on your shoulder. “Have faith, friend.”

  You nod, and reply, “Earlier, you advised me to crowd out emotions with logic. When I was young, there was nothing but the fight, the war, which taught the same lesson. No more does my spirit embrace that wise practice, it seems.”

  Bartleby smiles, his eyes crinkling with understanding.

  You ask, “Why have I changed so?”

  The cleric pauses, then replies, “Because… that is life’s journey.”

  You think of Fedwick once again, and your eyes begin to well, just as Crolliver bursts through the door of his home and steps toward you, carrying two well-maintained robes of black and red.

  “I hope these fit,” he remarks, “Either way, they shall have to suffice.” When you put your robe on and attempt to walk around, several inches of cloth drag across the dirt. As you pull the hood over your brow, however, you feel sneaky, even a bit back-handed.

  Your party stocks some supplies, and exits the city with a hearty salute to the south gate watchmen. The terrain challenges you on the two-day journey, changing from hills to steppe to craggy mountains. You regularly drink from your waterskin, even as regional breezes cool your brow. When you reach the official passage into Koraxon, you gape at the steep cliffs of granite that bar any other way through. Immigrants dressed in thick autumnal burlap choke the bottleneck from both sides, and keep a small corps of guards scrambling to address them all.

  Crolliver cuts straight toward the scarred orcblood that appears to run the operation. A pair of peasants shouts at him, but the youth presses forward undeterred, even as the chief yells a call for order. He whispers something in the orcblood’s ear, then points at you two.