The Seal of Thomerion

by Daniel Heck

  “That said, the time to fight is nigh. I suggest we begin preparations by designating a strategist.”

  To this, no one says much; most everyone looks about as if to avoid being nominated. You catch a glance from Paddy, and point at him innocently. He leans into your ear and whispers, “You think you know everything. Now prove it.”

  You ponder for a moment, then stand, holding your head high.

  The audience emits a proud ‘aaah,’ then breaks out in applause.

  The abbot approaches. “If you can win this for us,” he says to you, “My blood is yours to do with as you wish. Do we have a bargain?”

  You nod, and shake his hand with fervor.

  The others finish eating while the abbot pulls you aside, toward an oaken podium, upon which lies a rough map of the compound.

  “Our spies have informed us that the bandits’ numbers rank about forty, but your men bring us almost even to that. Although a few crossbows are available, we wield primarily staves and our bare fists.” He points at a large symbol on the map, which approximates a double-door. “Many aspects to defending the grounds must be balanced, but above all, the Brotherhood must not reach this point.”

  You listen intently, processing as much information as you can.

  “If our temple were defaced, it could very well break morale, not to mention that it serves as a central hub to all other portions of the monastery.”

  Indeed, the layout shows that the compound sprawls out in multiple branches, which all radiate from one point on the map. Yet, other possible defensive centers include two prominent watchtowers and a system of craggy hills that somewhat protect the eastern and southern sides from the buffeting prairie winds.

  “Do we know from which direction the bandits plan to strike?” you ask.

  “Unfortunately, we do not.”

  You grimace.

  Upon further examination of the grounds, however, two overarching approaches leap out at you. You feel a rush of nostalgia as you formulate them, a reminder of the intense mental stimulation you experienced in your military heyday, but push it down and away, into your core, so as to remain focused.

  At first, you think to place a few men, armed with what ranged weapons you have, at each of the defensive foci you noted, while spreading others around the perimeter at a distance. This gives you the chance to gain the upper hand early, but possibly at the cost of leaving the inner compound more vulnerable, should some enemies break through. On the other hand, if you post large groups of melee fighters near the double-doors and other key locations, you could put the offensive onus on the Brotherhood, while suffering the trade-off of sparser overall spatial coverage. You estimate that there just aren’t enough personnel to effectively implement both plans at once.

  What do you propose?

  Concentrated fighter units.

  A ranged focus over a wider space.

  You smirk, but say nothing in response to the surprising bid. Each of Zander’s coins is worth about fifty golds; you quickly count them, and estimate you could outdo the girl by six-to-one.

  It is now or never.

  The auctioneer rattles off more bids, repeating, “Two hundred, two hundred…do I hear two hundred?”

  You inhale, raise a fist, and bellow, “Two hundred!”

  The girl sticks her tongue out at you and states, “Just like a greedy warrior. Three hundred!”

  “I hear three hundred,” the auctioneer says, pointing at the girl, “Yes, three hundred. Do I hear more?”

  “Three hundred fifty,” a stout human near the front calls.

  “I hear three hundred fifty.”

  “This is mine,” you tell the girl. “You wouldn’t understand why.”

  “Wouldn’t I?” the girl counters. “Five hundred fifty!”

  A few attendees gasp, then a momentary silence hangs.

  “Well, well,” the auctioneer says. “The young lady seems serious! Do we have any other bids? Five hundred fifty gold for this lovely piece…”

  If you burn all your money here, and there’s no pearl in the chest, this auction will have been a complete waste of time. At the same time, the pile of wares on the platform has dwindled considerably.

  What do you do?

  I bid all of the six hundred I have!

  I let the chest go in favor of later items.

  “A pair and a straight,” Saul says, “Just one point to go.”

  He turns over the four of spades, and places it in the last spot. The final grid looks like this:

  You have lost.

  I hang my head in defeat.

  The next morning, you travel for only a short while. The pebbles underneath your feet sap more of your energy with each step, but signs of civilization eventually appear once more. Several groups of passersby, of many different races and sizes, head in the direction from which you came. Far ahead, however, a bottleneck of some sort seems to grow where cliffs constrict the path to nearly nothing, and a handful of guards scramble to keep up with folk wanting to leave or enter Koraxon.

  “We need to keep Miss Vermouth hidden,” Bartleby says. “If these orcbloods are authorities of any sort, they might recognize her.”

  You nod your agreement. Titania guides her horse to a spot behind a large tree, and wrings her hands.

  As you look around, two plans present themselves, neither of which thrills your conscience. For one, a band of cloaked troubadours stands several yards off the path; you could try to explain your situation and ask if they could help disguise Titania, or you could even take their hooded cloaks by force, if necessary.

  Also, a solitary merchant, whiskered but strong and upright, trudges by you and takes his place in line, hauling a sizable wagon behind him. The wagon’s basin appears filled with hay, over which has been draped a tarp of hewn leather. Smuggling Vermouth in by hiding her in the hay strikes you as another distinct possibility.

  What do you do?

  We engage the troubadours.

  We approach the merchant.

  There’s little reason to jump in headlong, you think, as you back away from the altar. Patience is key here.

  “This kind of item doesn’t get here all by itself,” you mutter to Bartleby, “Let’s find a hiding place and see if anyone shows up.”

  “And if no one does?” the cleric asks.

  “Then we’d be no worse off than we were before coming here.”

  Bartleby nods, looks around a bit, and points toward a very large, open crate about ten yards away. It’s mostly empty, and holes in the side afford a straight-on view of the Impactium, yet enough of the crate lies within the shadows so as to still be unnoticeable. With a little effort, you’re both able to climb inside, grab a nearby lid and close the opening.

  Wiling away the time using what little light seeps through the crate’s holes, you twist an old awl, then inspect a neglected lathe of some sort. Bartleby’s lips move every now and again, as he seems to utter some sort of silent prayer. More time passes, and the importance of this quest begins to settle into your soul. Your mind wanders, replaying Fedwick’s jokes about orcbloods, his failed attempt at setting you up with the local armorsmith, and his taking you in while your hut underwent repairs after the Great Raid of 1429. You assert that it’s no time to second-guess, but that if this great friend--no, this honorary clan member--is hurt by your dallying here, you would never be able to forgive yourself.

  You inch up against the wall of the crate, and glance toward the altar. While the angle of the sunlight has changed, nothing else new has developed. Disappointment drowns your spirit, and you are about to whisper toward Bartleby, when you hear a shuffling.

  From nowhere, a fair youth in black and red robes enters your field of vision, stops, glances about, and approaches the altar. He mutters in some arcane language, and holds his hands out over the Impactium. Over the course of several moments, the dwarven holy verses begin to emanate a purple glow, which slowly intensifies.

  It occurs to you that this is the
time to strike.

  You and the cleric exchange glances. You hold up first one, then two fingers while mouthing a count, and on three, you both burst forward out of the crate, sending dust flying. The youth looks up in alarm and backs away, and the book’s aura disappears.

  Bartleby shouts, “Halt, knave!”

  Your gaze burns holes into the youth as you charge toward the altar. He steps to the side, flings open his cloak and whips a dagger in your direction, but you deflect it as casually as if a gnat had landed on your shield. The youth blanches, frozen for an instant, then bolts toward the back of the warehouse.

  Bartleby says, “I’ll cut him off. You take the other side,” and takes a wide turn around several crates, toward the east wall. You continue to barrel through the mess, and soon see a trap door, built into the warehouse floor. The robed youth now struggles to open the hatch.

  The two of you close the distance. There is nowhere else to go. The youth stands straight and, scowling, raises his hands.

  “If you value your life,” you posture, “You’ll explain what’s going on here.”

  “What business is it of yours?” The youth’s voice booms off the walls. His black stubble hides youthful cheekbones and complements narrow eyes that stare blankly into nothing.

  “What were you doing to the Impactium just now?”

  The youth glances downward. A bead of sweat hits the floor.

  “I will tell you,” the youth says, “if you pledge to let me go unharmed thereafter.”

  Bartleby replies, “And if we refuse this pledge?”

  “The Church of Thomerion will double the price on your head.”

  The youth has directed these words straight at you.

  “P…p…price?” you stammer, shaking your head. “Lies!”

  What do you do?

  We will let the youth go in exchange for information.

  We take him prisoner.

  The merchant strikes you as more personable. Leaving Bartleby behind with Titania, you approach and ask how his day is proceeding and what he plans to do in Koraxon, to which he replies that he maintains a provisional agreement with the stablemen in the northern forts.

  “After all, agriculture ain’t never been these orc-people’s strong suit,” he jests.

  You smile at him. “Not to be too forward,” you say, “but, could we perhaps enlist you and your cart in a matter of great import?”

  “Tell me more,” he replies.

  “See that woman?” you ask as you indicate Vermouth, even as she remains hidden across the path.

  The merchant nods.

  “We need to get her into orc country as secretly as possible.”

  “But, much as you asked me,” the merchant replies, “why come here? Surely the mayor of Sungaze has better things to do.” So, even this random commoner recognizes her?

  You glance about you, and then at the ground, hesitant to divulge more than the man needs to know. The man cocks his head to one side, and adopts a curious expression.

  “It suffices to say that, together, the orcbloods and the church of Thomerion are up to no good. We intend to do something about it.”

  The man twists his face into a fierce scowl. “Well, why didn’cha say so in the first place? I have a bone to pick with them skull-and-dagger people, after one of their so-called missionaries harmed my daughter.”

  You grimace. “Is she okay?”

  “Thank the gods, yes.”

  An idea strikes you. “Would you like to come with us?” you ask.

  “Nope,” the merchant says, “I am expected back home soon. But whatever I can do to help your cause, I will.”

  With your help, he pushes aside a large section of hay, and backs the contraption up toward where Titania hides. The old wooden wheels clack upon the rough stones on the way. While the cleric watches around the bend, you and the merchant pile armful after armful of the tan straw over and around Vermouth, until it completely conceals her.

  “Can you breathe?” you ask.

  “I can,” she replies.

  “Here goes nothing.”

  The merchant retakes control of the cart and drags it back into sight of the immigrant line. You let a few small parties fill in the space, and wait until the largest orcblood approaches the man.

  “State your business,” the guard grunts.

  The merchant gulps. He takes a moment to compose himself in the shadow of the hulking semi-monster, but not before he flashes a pleading look in your direction.

  “Who are you looking at?” the orcblood shouts.

  “Uh… my business is…” the man sputters, “to complete this shipment. I’ve been through here many times before… I’ve…”

  “Silence!”

  The merchant complies. The guard circles round to the back of the cart, and scans its contents, bending over and craning his neck to inspect as much of the payload as possible. He pauses and scratches his chin.

  Without warning, the orcblood opens the cart’s rear hatch, reaches forward and punches the hay, sinking his arm in to the elbow. Bartleby covers his mouth.

  Not a sound emerges, beyond the expected hollow rustling.

  The guard backs up, pauses once more, and harrumphs, “Very well. You may pass.”

  The rest of your party passes through the checkpoint a few moments later, pretending that Bartleby is leading you on a pilgrimage. You help the merchant haul the cart well beyond the guards’ range of view, and finally help Titania out from under her concealment.

  “That shall leave a bruise,” she says, wincing.

  “When I need to be the strong-and-silent type,” Bartleby comments, “I shall remember you on this day.”

  “How valiant!” The two smile at each other.

  I arch an eyebrow.

  You make sure you are once again out of sight of anyone before speaking further, while resting your tired bodies upon some large stones. Grey clouds shield the sun, as sharp winds buffet the collars of your cloaks. You don’t get to keep the cloaks for long, however, as within minutes, the troubadour band catches up with you and reclaims them. They wish you luck and grumble about the weather as they continue past.

  “To where in this abominable land were the servants of Thomerion taking you, Miss Vermouth?” Bartleby asks.

  “Please, call me Titania,” the mayoress replies with a smile.

  “Yes, ma’am,” The cleric chimes.

  “To answer your question, I overheard bits and pieces about what is called the Tower of the Dark Wrath. A prominent orcblood general is to meet with church bishops within its topmost level.”

  “That could prove our biggest challenge yet,” you muse.

  “Since we’ve come this far, I begin to believe we can handle anything,” the cleric replies.

  You nudge him. “Laying it on a little thick, are we?”

  Bartleby shrugs.

  “If no one can recognize me,” Vermouth says, “We should at least be able to avoid being captured again.”

  “At the same time,” you note, “We can’t just march into their meeting place without an explanation. And, where is this tower?”

  The mayoress points toward the skyline. An unmistakable structure of dank grey brick, dotted with tiny windows secured with bars of black iron, looms over the entire city from many miles in the distance. The top level must be fifty yards up, you estimate.

  “By the gods…”

  Bartleby’s jaw hangs slack. “I stand corrected,” he whispers.

  For one of the first times in your life, genuine fear floods your heart, but you force your legs to carry you along as the party rises once more, and prepares to journey toward the tower. As you hike the miles, you recollect many tales of travels to unfamiliar lands from your military years. You have even been in Koraxon a time or two before, but this… you fail to recall ever seeing anything quite so imposing, let alone entering it. Your gaze remains frozen upon it during every step, in anticipation of what lay inside.

  When you approach,
however, your heart calms. Keeping your distance, you assess that a half-dozen or so orcblood personnel are on hand outside the tower. They talk amongst themselves, and point in various directions as if on the move.

  From out of the shadows emerges a wizened human, who wears black and red robes and carries a talisman imprinted with a skull and dagger. He glances down both directions of the mostly deserted street, pulls his cloak tight around a lump, and enters the tower with a slight nod toward an attending orcblood. The door remains slightly ajar.

  “Did he look like he might be carrying something valuable to you too?” you whisper to Bartleby.

  You watch as five of the guards leave toward the west.

  “Not knowing what we’re up against,” Titania says, “I have two ideas. Deception, or force. As for the latter, these orcbloods may be big and strong, but they’re slow, and there’s only one left at the moment. We may be able to barrel our way past him, get what we need, and leave.”

  “And, the other plan?”

  “Let’s just say the troubadours gave me the idea. As long my disguise holds, we can concoct a story as to why we’re here. If it’s convincing enough, he might just let us through.”

  What do you do?

  We physically storm the tower.

  We employ deceptive tactics.

  You thank the merchant once again, and let him be on his way.

  “To where in Koraxon were you being taken, Miss Vermouth, when we rescued you?” Bartleby asks.

  “Several worshippers near my cell in Sungaze let spill that a prominent orcblood general and a key bishop of Thomerion were to meet within the topmost level of the Tower of the Dark Wrath.”

  Bartleby shudders at the mention of the name. You scratch your head. “Tower of the Dark Wrath?” you ask.