by Daniel Heck
Cruel fate has taken your life. Rise again!
Go back to the previous choice, or…
Restart from the beginning.
You call out, “We seek a healer, for a friend is…”
“The medicine men here are quite occupied at the moment,” the guard interrupts, “Now leave this place.”
Bartleby presses, “Might you at least tell us their names?”
“You will be given to a count of ten.” Two lieutenants in the watchtowers nock arrows in their bows.
“Very well,” you concede as you hold your hands in the air, “As you say.” The two of you retreat partway back up the path, then conceal yourselves within the woods and out of the guards’ view. You glance one last time toward Sungaze, and huff to Bartleby, “Do any alternatives come to mind?”
“They may be blocking out visitors,” the cleric replies, “but I noted ships approaching their port from a distance. It appears economic activity proceeds per the norm.”
You blink. “Your point being?”
“We sneak in by the sea.”
This piques your interest, even as, upon further discussion, a dubious plan comes to light. You travel to an Ambrosinian bay, and start sweet-talking some fishermen into lending you a canoe, with which you’ll row your way into the Sungaze port, preferably in the wake of a much larger vessel, so as to attract as little local attention as possible.
“Are you not right in the head, or what?” the fourth young angler you approach remarks, scratching himself nervously. “Listen, do you have anything you could give me for the boat? I’d return it to you later. And I like to study weaponry, on the side, it just so happens.”
You ponder your options.
What do you offer?
My trusty axe.
Bartleby’s talisman.
“Let’s wait until nightfall,” you propose.
Bartleby nods. You tail the troop at a great distance, ducking into alleys whenever any being therein turns toward you. At one point, you almost lose them when they turn a corner, but you surmise by the size of the building they enter that they have reached the training grounds. Once all the undead are inside, the necromancer scans the streets one more time with his one gray eye, frowns, and slinks through the door.
You both settle into an alley with an inconspicuous view.
A thought strikes you. “Bartleby,” you say, “have you any siblings?”
“One sister, younger,” he replies. “Why do you ask?”
“The bond of growing up together perplexes me. While we seek to save the life of the closest thing I have ever had to a brother, I sometimes wonder whether it is quite the same.”
Bartleby looks aside, and thinks. “In our case,” he says after a moment, “The dozen years that separated us made it feel as if we were in completely separate families. One could argue that a greater bond has developed in adulthood between us than was ever felt when young.”
You arch an eyebrow.
The cleric continues, “Even so, just because we are family does not mean that my sister and I have much in common, beyond appearances. While I grew to become a man of the cloth, for instance, she runs a stable in Fort Remnon.” He pauses, and looks into your eyes. “With Fedwick, do not forget what you have shared, your ideals, your determination. Your vast array of experiences.”
You smirk, and stretch your sore arms. “How did you know I needed to hear that?”
Bartleby smiles. “Call it intuition.”
Over the next several hours, the two of you talk more deeply than ever before, and even come around to laughing at the very obstacles you’ve had to overcome thus far, after Bartleby picks a clump of seaweed out of his hair. You learn about his sermons, his congregation, the ways in which he spreads peace, while you tell him about military logistics.
A moment of silence passes.
“Bartleby,” you say, “Thank you for accompanying me on this quest.”
Bartleby nods and says, “It was meant to be. And perhaps,” he adds as he glances toward the door to the training grounds, “We shall end up saving each other before it is all over.”
A heavy creak interrupts you, as the door swings open once more. The necromancer emerges, but even after several moments, neither undead nor an orcblood follow him.
You and the cleric agree to tail the crony, who by the time you stand has already turned around a bend in the road, nearly diving out of sight. The going proves slow, as the man weaves in and out of several alleys, sometimes emitting a perverse moan as he inspects the very core of night itself.
Finally, he approaches a decrepit wooden home, looks up to the sky, pushes aside the mangled door and shuffles through the entryway.
“A good, old-fashioned kidnapping,” you whisper, reaching into your pack and feeling around for your rope.
With knotted coils in hand, the two of you sneak through the door with only the moonlight and the necromancer’s mild snoring to guide you. Once, your step upon a loose board elicits a grunt from several rooms in, and you freeze, barely daring to breathe. After an agonizing silence, the snoring resumes.
You pass through a final archway, and see the mottled beam of a hooded oil lamp, which dances upon the face of your target.
You leap upon the necromancer and wrench his arms behind his back. He shouts and protests groggily, but Bartleby holds his mouth shut with one arm and locks his head with the other. You tie him up, and the cleric throws him over his back like a sack of potatoes.
“What is the meaning of this?” the man croaks.
“When we are done with you,” you grumble, “You will have shared everything you know about the Seal of Thomerion, about the Black Rose, and especially about your army of undead.”
“We shall see about that,” he replies, “Dandrel, sic’ em!”
Out of the shadows bursts the same weasel you’d seen on the man’s shoulder earlier, which leaps upon your face faster than you can raise your arms. Murderous fire flaring in its eyes, it scratches at you, digging burning wounds into your skin, even as you scramble to pull the creature off. Bartleby drops the necromancer and approaches to help, but the pet has all fours wrapped around you like a vise.
The cleric wrenches its top half away, and almost has it off, when the weasel flails one last time, and buries a jagged claw into each of your eyeballs. You scream in horror, and feel warm blood spurt out of your face and onto your cheeks and arms.
“Thomerion shall prevail!” you hear.
You can no longer see a thing, but judging by several rapid and loud footfalls, the necromancer has fled. A force pulls hard against your eye sockets, and you hear a squish, but then the weasel finally lets go.
On your knees, you whimper, “Is it dead?”
Bartleby concedes, in a panicked tone, “I lost my grip upon it, and it left with its master. Here, sit. Now.”
Your companion guides you toward a bed, and utters some mystical words. You feel warmth rush into your skull, and you feel calmer. Several moments of silence pass.
“I…” you mutter as you feel about, “I still… cannot see. Did you…?”
“At least,” Bartleby says, “I was able to stop the bleeding.”
“What… what do you mean to say?”
Bartleby sighs. “For me to restore your sight, you would need your eyes.”
It takes a moment to sink in, but soon, your soul gives up. Blind and vulnerable, and forced to help yourself more than you could ever help Fedwick, you concede the end of your quest, and would cry, if you could.
Better opportunities await you. Try again!
Go back to the previous choice, or…
Restart from the beginning.
“Let’s get this over with,” you suggest, “in broad daylight if we must.”
“It sounds like suicide to me,” Bartleby counters.
“We don’t know where he will go later,” you argue, “Strike while the iron is hot.”
“We should still wait until he doesn’t have quite so
much help.”
“Speaking of which, what do you suppose he meant by the ‘Black Rose’?”
Bartleby shrugs. “This is the first I have heard of it, but judging by context alone, it might grant some expanded level of control over undead.”
You scratch your beard. “We shall have to look into it later. For now, they are almost out of sight.” You stand.
Continuing to tail the troop at a great distance, you dive into more alleys to avoid detection, and soon you see a sizable arena, built of stone and brick. The orcblood opens a grand door in the side, and enters first. You close the distance and prepare a length of rope as quietly as possible, as the necromancer funnels the undead through in single-file formation. Within moments, the last skeleton has clattered out of sight, and the crony, still outside, pauses to scan the horizon, blinking his one good eye.
As he turns back toward the door, a small wooden item falls from his robes and to the ground, kicking up some dust. The man grumbles, and slowly bends over to pick it up.
“Now,” you order.
You both charge out of the shadows and are on top of the crony before he has stood. Bartleby closes and holds shut the door to the training grounds while you knock the crony to the ground, and tie his arms.
He struggles, and shouts, “What do you want with me?”
“Who is responsible for the Seal of Thomerion? For what purpose do you control undead?”
He glares up at you, enraged. “I will become one of our army before I talk!"
Bartleby counters, “Be careful what you wish for, old man.”
“Who are you to say so? You assault a stranger in the middle of the streets, without any weapons, with no idea of what is actually happening. You are naïve fools. That is what you are.”
How does he know all this? You frown in thought.
The crony shouts, “Carnahinta, Omnivictus, Polaranka, Sergetimpus!”
Something crashes against the door to the training grounds from the other side, throwing Bartleby to the ground and nearly breaking the door in half. As many full sets of boney arms and legs begin to poke through the aperture, you realize the man had not handed over power of the troop to anyone inside the arena.
“Run!” you shout.
You let go of the necromancer just as the door gives way, and the entire troop pours back out into the streets with short swords at the ready. You and Bartleby dash toward the sea, but the skeletons follow. When you reach the pier, out of breath and ready to collapse, you find that anything resembling a boat or other method of water travel has disappeared entirely. Cornered, your mind begins to panic, and you even entertain such irrational thoughts as attempting to drown your enemies, which would certainly fail because they have no lungs.
“Bartleby?”
“Yes?”
“They say in your circles that the afterlife is paradise, do they not?”
“We shall see,” he concedes, “We shall see.”
Your quest has ended... or has it?
Go back to the previous choice, or…
Restart from the beginning.
Standing near a large boulder, Zander pulls aside a tangle of moss to reveal an ancient path, which descends into the earth. You carefully light a torch, and proceed with your party into the tunnel. As he could be considered the best scout, Mikhail takes the lead, with Zander right behind. Bartleby brings up the rear, while you march in the middle. The passage turns mustier the deeper you go, and you ponder Argent’s living arrangements further.
“For such a legendary man,” you say, “Argent seems to employ little direct protection, at least in the sense I’d be used to.”
“I can understand it,” Zander comments, “Bodyguards are, after all, quite expensive, and I daresay, old-fashioned.”
You frown. “King Patrick employs dozens.”
“Which only serves to prove my point.”
Bartleby chuckles. Mikhail turns and shushes the group, even as you press onward for what seems like many miles.
Finally, you see a light ahead. The passage opens up into a large, well-lit chamber. You quell your flame, and notice wooden doors within each of the chamber’s side walls, as well as a large metal double door set into the far wall, which Mikhail approaches. He takes some small tools from his pack.
Zander whispers, “Take caution…”
Mikhail replies, “Why? It couldn’t be clearer that the man we seek is behind this door, of the three.”
Zander scratches his head. “Just because it’s different from the others?”
The elf says, “Trust me,” and crouches over the door’s keyhole.
At this, the ranger just stands and gawks.
Meanwhile, you and Bartleby search the area. You find a large hourglass built into a nook in the wall, as well as a strange sheet of glass within the ceiling that protects a copper key. The cleric reports that the two side doors have peepholes, but hide strange mechanisms that seem to keep them shut, as well as a tall ladder.
“Certainly a rather odd get-up,” Bartleby says.
“I should think these all have something to do with our overall goal,” you note.
“I’ve got it!”
The shout comes from Mikhail, who with a tremendous heave, pulls open the handles on the metal double door, and opens it wide.
“Then again,” you grumble.
“That was fast,” Zander says.
Behind the doors, a bearded man dressed from head to toe in shiny silver sits at a desk, within a small but richly decorated study full of books and scrolls. The man turns within his chair, his fists clenched.
“What is the meaning of this?” he shouts. “Who are you to barge in here like this, bypassing my…”
Before Argent can finish his sentence, before you can even stop what you are doing long enough to introduce yourself and explain your purpose, Mikhail pulls a dark shiv from underneath his cloak, glides across the study in a few steps and buries the blade in the wizard’s jugular. Blood sprays in streaks upon the walls, and with a lurch and a weak grunt, your best hope for Fedwick’s cure falls upon the floor, dead.
Your jaw hangs limp, and shock overwhelms you, to the point where the crimson seal of skull and dagger imprinted into the elf’s weapon is almost an afterthought.
Zander sputters, “But… why, Mikhail?”
“I am sorry, friend.”
The elf pulls a small vial containing a clear blue liquid from a pouch at his waist. Zander springs into action, and attempts to tackle the elf, but Mikhail twists to one side and trips the ranger, who falls flat on his face. You charge forward as well, but Mikhail pulls the cork on the vial and chugs its contents. He instantly vanishes into the surroundings.
You stop short, and flail your hands around the air where the elf stood. Nothing. You hear quick footsteps trailing toward the compound entrance to your left, but whatever portion of your childhood education that prepared you for the need to intercept invisible assassins seems to escape you at this particular moment. Bartleby and Zander make similarly feeble attempts at finding the traitor, but by the time they recover, the entire compound is quiet once again.
You could go back to Whitetail and start over, you think as you sit heavily. But, could your heart find the capacity to trust anyone, ever again? Bartleby checks the body of Argent, but shakes his head, certain that he can do nothing to heal the wizard. Zander hangs his head and lays a hand on your shoulder.
In a way, though, you feel lucky to be alive yourself, let alone Fedwick, or Argent. You were, after all, nothing but leverage. You find yourself wringing your hands, confused and scared.
Acceptance shall come, perhaps, in time.
Don’t let evil win. Read another path!
Go back to where you met the group, or…
Restart from the beginning.
You breathe deeply, suppressing your temper, and remind yourself that this minor financial loss will not break you. Besides, more important issues press upon you.
“Perhaps the
fool can use the money more than I,” you grumble.
After one last glance toward the treehouse, you stroll toward the wood, where the rest of your party has found the entrance to Argent’s compound.
Moving onward,
You glance at the floor, but manage a weak smile at the halfling as you say, “I would wish for a way to heal a dying friend.”
The little one blinks, pauses, and rubs his neck. “No disrespect intended, good sir,” he squeaks, “but… that’s just depressing.” He sets the book on the librarian’s desk, and hustles out the door and into the street. You stare after him, dumbfounded.
“I’d say you’ll have to forgive the fellow,” remarks the gnome librarian, “Except, it’s impossible to say when he’ll be back, if ever.”
You scratch your beard, and indicate the tome. “May I?”
“Be my guest.”
You flip a few pages, and find a short entry:
A native Ambrosinian, Demetrius Argent developed superior magical skill as a youth and joined the Council of Royal Magi in the spring of 1472, only to defect eight moons later and become a recluse. Accomplishments during his brief tenure include successful co-negotiation of the Fort Remnon Peace Treatise, as well as supposed innovations in the realm of potion-making, few of which have been tested in the field of battle or anywhere else.
You look up from the book. “Is this all anyone knows about Argent? He doesn’t have a family? Someone who would know where he can be found now?”
“Not of which I am aware,” says the bookkeeper.
You thank the librarian for his cooperation and follow up on what little you have learned, by asking around about the head of the Council of Royal Magi. The kind old wizard you meet knows even less about Argent than you, and says that the tenure in question must have been before his time. He offers to consult with the entire Council and get back to you, but that option proves unworkable when he notes that the Council won’t meet again for another ten days.