The Seal of Thomerion

by Daniel Heck

  By now, your thoughts about the lack of information swirl out of control. As the day winds down, you trek back to the Pig’s Foot Inn and Tavern and listen and watch, but the men from which you heard the initial lead are nowhere to be found.

  As long as I’m here, you think, I feel like taking the edge off.

  You order another drink to complement the one from earlier in the day. You begin to feel more relaxed, and so order yet another. With little to do and few people to bother at this hour, you strike up a loud conversation with anyone that passes by. Before you know it, you’re intoxicated, and attempt to follow up on James’ ‘last call,’ but he puts a hand out in front of him and waves you off.

  “You’ve had too many, good friend.”

  “Don’t… tell… me,” you slur, shoving James with fervor, “that I’ve had too many!”

  “I would prefer you keep your hands to yourself, sir.”

  “Oh, a moment ago I was ‘good friend!’” you bellow, “Now, I’m ‘sir!’” You explode in a fit of hearty laughter, lose your balance and land on the hard wood floor hip-first. In the process, you spill a significant amount of alcohol and break one of James’s best tankards.

  “That’s it,” James says, “I am sorry for this.”

  James casts a sober look at two orcbloods near the entrance, and then points at you. The bouncers tromp toward you, grip your arms, lift you up and haul you outside. You want to struggle, but feel a distinct shortage of the energy required. Dizziness sets in as your captors tie your arms with rope and toss you in the back seat of a carriage. The journey to the town jail jostles your stomach, and the bouncers lead you out just in time to serve as targets for your copious vomiting.

  Disorderly conduct charges certainly won’t help save Fedwick, you think, as your heart sinks and your mind spins. You wonder just how long they’ll detain you before a hearing will occur, and manage to pass out onto the cold dirt of your cell, just after the sun sets.

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

  Go back to the previous choice, or…

  Restart from the beginning.

  Your stomach feels as if you have swallowed an anvil, as if in anticipation of lifelong spiritual punishment. Yet, something reassures you that the decision you are about to make is for the greater good.

  “While few souls can claim my kinship quite as he did,” you say, looking at no one, “Fedwick himself would advise me to press forward. We met while at war. And what is war, but a conflict engaged in so as to protect the people? So many more are now involved than he…”

  You place a fist over your heart. Bartleby lays a hand on your shoulder.

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes,” you reply, looking up, “I shall come with you to Koraxon. We need to give ourselves the best chance possible.”

  You wrangle your horses, and borrow a calm one from the carriage, so that the three of you can each ride. The enemies’ rations provide you enough sustenance for the trip; not long passes until you depart from the path at a southward angle. You wonder out loud how to find a good junction at which to meet the main trail without getting lost in prairie, but Vermouth employs a compass with confidence, keeping your path straight and true.

  You meet few humanoids during this leg of your journey, save a hunter in green who takes great pains to ignore you. Far more common are squirrels and rabbits, which skitter about randomly and enjoy the luxury of being surrounded by very few predators. Around sunset, the terrain begins challenging you as it changes from prairie to rockier ground, with far sparser vegetation. Brilliant purples and oranges dance along the bottom of a bank of cumulus clouds.

  “It seems a good time to rest, gentlemen,” Vermouth says, pointing ahead, “And that appears to be the main road. Shall we camp here, while we are still out of sight?”

  “That seems… quite reasonable…” Bartleby intones. Something about his tone sounds dreamy, distant. You glance at the cleric, who keeps his gaze locked on Vermouth as he helps her dismount.

  You assist in tying the horses to trees and shore up some rocks and tinder for a fire. The three of you soon settle around the flames, feeling comfortable, even as a crisp breeze out of the west whips your faces.

  “Once again,” Titania says, “I cannot thank you enough. Who knows what could have happened, had you not taken such bold action?”

  Bartleby blushes, and replies, “Merely our duty, Miss Vermouth.”

  You chuckle, and both of the others stare at you for an awkward moment. You clear your throat. “It is nothing,” you say. You fiddle with your bootstraps.

  “Now then,” Vermouth says, “I shall retire a bit early.”

  “Understandable,” the cleric says. “A long distance remains before us.”

  Vermouth climbs into a bedroll, and soon appears asleep, although her breaths emit not a sound.

  “Come,” you request of the cleric. He arches an eyebrow, but stands and follows as you stroll many yards away from the fire.

  “What is it?”

  “You know perfectly well what ‘it’ is,” you reply, nodding toward the woman. Bartleby glances over his shoulder at her.

  “So, I find her eyes attractive. And her smile. Oh, and her…”

  “My friend, do you know what can happen when you fall into the trap that is the opposite gender? Come to think of it, are you even allowed to have such feelings? Your dogma, and all…”

  Bartleby frowns. “I am only human.”

  “But one ‘made in the image of your god.’ One whose chastity steers one toward a path of divine devotion. Am I correct?”

  Bartleby turns away from you, but you continue, “One moment of distraction could be fatal. I have seen it happen far too often.”

  “What do you know of this form of love?” The annoyance in the cleric’s voice alarms you. “Everything in dwarven society is about clansmanship, camaraderie, brotherhood. I should begin to think you even procreate with reluctance!”

  Vermouth stirs and moans, and Bartleby covers his mouth. After you are both sure she has returned to slumber, you take care to speak in hushed whispers.

  You puff out your chest. “I shall ignore your petty insults. Just know, however, that your gods, your prayers, they cannot solve everything. When it comes down to it, we must rely on ourselves to survive this quest. And to do that, we must maintain focus.”

  “Duly noted.”

  Bartleby turns on his heel, returns to camp, and lies down upon the bare earth, leaving you with watch duty. When the time comes for you to sleep, you rouse the cleric and switch places without a word or even a nod.

  Harrumph!

  If you’ve ever learned a lesson about sneaky types, it’s to avoid arguing with them. You instruct Mikhail to wake you when the moon is a third of the way to its apex, at which point you will take over.

  Sleep, however, does not work its magic quite as you’d anticipated. Multiple rocks poke into your back and hips, no matter how you arrange your bedroll. Huffing, you question Zander’s ability to choose a suitable campsite. You breathe slowly, and focus on relaxation. In, out. In, out. You drift through semi-consciousness, when something compels you to open your eyes. As you gaze past the fire’s embers and into the darkness, Mikhail appears to be no longer stand at his post.

  No matter. This group has gotten you this far. The elf must be nearby, you reflect, merely stretching his legs, perhaps finding a way to stanch the boredom. Your eyelids flutter one last time, and the fog of fatigue finally conquers your bones. You feel reasonably rested when you take watch, which passes without incident.

  Time marches ever onward.

  “This collector could have found just about anything,” you assert. “I shall attend the auction.”

  “Good,” Zander says, “I’ve waited a while for a use for these.” The ranger opens a pouch at his waist, pulls out a handful of smooth gray coins, and sets them into your hand.

  You notice a difference in the coins’ sheen, relative to what
you’re used to seeing. “These are not silver. Platinum?” you ask. Zander nods. “Impressive,” you say. “This could cover just about anything.”

  “Keep them under wraps,” Zander advises. “The last associate that knew I carried that kind of money tried to take it by force.”

  You arch an eyebrow. “The last associate?”

  “Not Mikhail. But a cur of equal deceptive capability.”

  Heeding his advice, you look over your shoulder, and quickly stash the money in your own coin sack.

  “Why is it, Zander,” you jest, “That you, an upstanding citizen in your own right, seem to attract such untrustworthy folk?”

  The ranger smirks, and sweeps his hair out of his eyes. “Believe me, friend. That is a question I have asked myself many a time.”

  Bartleby interjects, “Just in case it is needed, I would like to contribute as well.” He hands you a small, multi-looped pouch; a quick count indicates it contains about thirty to forty gold pieces.

  “Thank you, both,” you say.

  “With that, it is time to part, for now,” Zander says, “Let us meet again, here, six days after the morrow.”

  “May divine providence shine upon us,” Bartleby says.

  You shake hands with both, and a heaviness settles into your chest as you comprehend that, for now, you are on your own. You restock some supplies using a little of Bartleby’s gold, and that evening, you trek as far as you can before camping.

  The going proves straightforward but hurried for the next full day, and you arrive at the town square exhausted, but just in time to watch the gnome auctioneer set up his podium, while assistants arrange wares into neat piles on a nearby platform. A trio of strong-looking humans flanks the area and keeps the loud throng of potential buyers in line.

  You take some space among the crowd, and notice a young girl, who sits on a tweed blanket and fiddles with a thread on her sky blue dress. Intrigued, you approach, and chime, “Good day, madam.”

  “Good day, sir dwarf.” She smiles up at you, her large green eyes twinkling. She sounds and appears no more than ten years of age.

  “Have you heard much, perchance, about what these people intend to sell today?” you ask, indicating the auction crew.

  “Not much, truly,” the girl says, as she glances at the ground.

  You kneel next to her. “What kinds of things would you like to buy?”

  “I am here on behalf of my mother,” the girl replies, “who would like jewelry. Cheaply, if I can manage it, she said.”

  This is my competition?

  “So,” you continue, “Your parents are not here to help you?”

  “My mother is sick today.” The girl continues to avoid your gaze.

  Concern rising within, you press, “And your father?”

  “He… is with our god. The gods met him on the battlefield, and they took him away from us.”

  Your heart sinks, and you place a hand over your heart. “I am… sorry for your loss,” you console.

  She pauses, then looks back up at you. “Are you a warrior, sir?”

  You arch an eyebrow. “Why, yes. Why do you ask?”

  “The axe at your waist. I could not help but notice.”

  Your hand brushes against Ol’ Rusty, and for a moment you weigh the odds of its blade having ever slaughtered the person in question, or at least someone like him. A twinge of remorse pierces your heart, and you ready yourself to speak further, but she asks first, “And, sir, what do you intend to buy?”

  “I attend out of mere curiosity,” you bluff, “although, if the desire so strikes me, I am prepared to bid.” The organizers appear ready. The auctioneer climbs upon a crate, and holds his hands out to call for order.

  “Good luck to you, then,” the girl says with a half-smile, as she stands and turns to face the gnome.

  The auction proceeds with little fanfare, as though its organizers prefer to burn through as many items as possible so as to get home in time for a late dinner. Judging from what’s available, you don’t blame them in the least; first a plain dresser goes, then a decorative spear, a set of chipped plates and a ream of untouched vellum. The surrounding people bid on some items, although a few properties are so mundane that no one wants them, and the sellers donate them to the merchant’s guild.

  You tap your foot and grumble to yourself, feeling bored nearly to tears, and have just begun considering other options when you hear the auctioneer’s voice swell with vigor, “And, ladies and gentlemen, here we have something quite mysterious, if I do say so myself.” Two handlers haul an ornate chest, a couple feet across, of burnished metal with a huge keyhole, to within view of the entire crowd. The auctioneer continues, “Our men couldn’t get this puppy open, so whatever is inside goes along with the chest to the buyer. Give it a shake, gentlemen. Quiet, please!”

  The men jostle the chest, producing a tinkling rattle mixed in with a few loud thumps.

  The tinkling sounds…you ponder. Gems, perhaps?

  “As you can hear, it’s far from empty! Do I hear fifty gold, to start?”

  “One hundred!”

  It takes a moment for you to realize that the bid came from the little girl. She stands on tiptoes to see, her hand extended high in the air.

  The chest could be the key to saving Fedwick, or it could contain junk. Furthermore, how much more is the girl willing to pay?

  What do you do?

  I attempt to outbid everyone else.

  I wait for something better.

  You take a detour to stock your pack, and meet back up with Paddy and dozens of accompanying followers at the north gate. You depart upon the half-day’s journey to the monastery with mixed feelings: a certain lightness and hope comingle with tedium, having already endured this much, with much more to come.

  “So,” Paddy asks, “what could you be doing with your life that makes so you thrilled about a trip to a monastery?”

  “Do you recall Fedwick, of the Canterbury clan?”

  “The reckless one, with the dent in his head to match his lack of wits? Clearly. Why?”

  You scowl, but remind yourself that in this context, Paddy is just a means to an end. A moment passes as you recover, and tell yourself not to retaliate.

  You clear your throat. “He and I became rather like brothers.”

  “Of this I was aware.”

  “I was to meet him at his home a mere…”—you stop to count—“three days ago. When I arrived, I found him in a dire state, as someone had inflicted the Seal of Thomerion upon him.”

  Paddy scratches his chin. “And now?”

  “’Tis a long story, but it suffices to say that I need the blood of a monk of the highest rank, to help create a cure for Fedwick.”

  Your mentor looks away, and sighs. “You’ve been fed a load of garbage, if you ask me.”

  You counter, “I know you’ve long been against the use of magic, and yet, I’ve met some gentlemen along the way who seem to have such blind faith that I cannot help but…”

  “That is not what I mean,” Paddy grumbles as he turns back to glare at you. Your eyes widen, and you gesture in encouragement for him to explain. “Sometimes, young man, people fall in the line of duty. This seems to be the nature of things, and there is little we can do to fight it. But what little we can do, we ought to focus in the best direction possible. You talk about saving a dead man, at the same time that the whole lot of us march toward an opportunity to protect dozens of living souls.”

  You let him pause before you say, “You give the church of Thomerion far too much credit.”

  “Or, do you give them too little?”

  Pursing your lips, you turn your gaze straight ahead, and listen to the conversation of other sub-groups within the convoy. Little seems to quell the irritation rising within you, and yet, a micron of Paddy’s message appeals to your brain:

  Is this what Fedwick would want? Or would it better serve his memory, our memories together, to move on?

  A full minute pa
sses. Above, the clouds drift apart, and the sun’s rays blind you.

  “We shall have to agree to disagree, then, shan’t we?” you say.

  Paddy shrugs. The two of you say not a word more to each other, for the entire remainder of the journey.

  It is quite late in the day by the time you arrive at the monastery. The abbot welcomes the group, and promises to apprise you of the situation in the morning. As he shows you to a cot within a guest room, you briefly describe your plight.

  “You ask of me to give of my life force itself,” he replies. “I shall consider it, although I may need as much as I can manage to keep.”

  You nod your understanding.

  At dawn, a breakfast of spiced pork cutlets and sweet mangoes energizes you, and you realize that you hadn’t had that good of a night’s sleep in ages. The abbot addresses the convoy in a clear voice, “Thank the heavens, and thank you most of all, for your being here today. While we can hold our own when defense is called for, some recent structural work has left weaknesses, literal holes in some cases, within our compound.”

  You and others look about, noting a door off its hinges in one direction, and a stained-glass window that leans against the opposite wall, waiting to be installed. Piles of raw wood by-product sit visible in the corners of the room.

  “We gather that this particular band of miscreants,” the abbot continues, “who call themselves the Brotherhood of Dusk, views us as vulnerable at the moment. What they want from us, we do not know. We possess only what we need, and can only guess that they stir up trouble for its own sake.”

  A murmur of agreement arises from within your convoy. You scratch your beard, and frown.