The Seal of Thomerion

by Daniel Heck

  You see nothing above. No hallway torchlight shines upon you.

  It should be here, you think, exasperated. Are we lost?

  You flail about, and suddenly realize that you can no longer hear your companion.

  “Bartleby?”

  “I’m here…”

  “Where?”

  Silence. Then,

  “I don’t know.”

  “Bartleby!” Your shout echoes throughout the catacomb.

  Defeated, blind and unarmed, you slump against a wall, and remind yourself that there are probably worse ways for this to have ended.

  But, not many.

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

  Go back to the previous choice, or…

  Restart from the beginning.

  A twinge of panic rises within you, but you close your eyes for a moment, and breathe deeply. “Let’s focus on seeking help with the Black Rose, as one group.”

  Bartleby adopts a look of shock. “And Fedwick?” he asks.

  “Perhaps this is somehow a stepping stone on the way to his cure,” you postulate.

  The cleric nods. “One would hope,” he says, without much hope in his voice.

  You return to searching, and soon, Zander calls out that he has found the entrance to Argent’s compound.

  I ponder what lies ahead.

  You raise your hand and shout, “Six hundred!”

  “Six hundred,” the auctioneer replies, “Do I hear six hundred fifty? Six hundred fifty… six hundred to the gentledwarf in the armor…”

  The girl shoves her fists into her hips and glares at you. “I hope you’re happy!” She stomps upon your foot, turns and harrumphs her way down the lane.

  “Going once, going twice… sold!”

  Your heart heavy, you approach the podium. “Just a moment,” you tell the auctioneer. You chase down the girl and splutter, “Listen…”

  Pouting, she wrenches free of your grasp. “Leave me alone!”

  “All I want from that chest is a large pearl, if it has one. I should have just told you outright. Let us share whatever else is in it.”

  Her countenance softens. “You would do that… for me?”

  You nod, and smile. “And… for your mother.”

  A moment passes. She smiles back.

  “Maybe I was wrong about warriors, after all.”

  The two of you approach the podium. You pay for your purchase, and together you haul the chest off the platform.

  “Let me go find my uncle,” the girl says. “He’s a locksmith.”

  The remainder of the auction proceeds behind you, without much fanfare. Within minutes, the girl returns with a freckled man of average build, who greets you and promptly begins his work on the lock. You watch as he manipulates the cylinders with a slender brown pick. He and the girl consult, but you can’t make out what they say.

  “One… more…” the man says.

  You hear a distinct click.

  “Voila!” He opens the lid just an inch, and asks, “Are we ready?”

  After you have all gathered round, he flings the lid wide open.

  Inside are animal bones. Some are as large as a femur, while most are tiny, but none offer any use to you. Canine teeth rattle loose about the chest. You dig through it all, swiping away large swaths of dust, but find nothing resembling a pearl.

  I grumble in disappointment.

  The life of the king must be saved at all costs!

  You run as fast as your legs can take you, rearing your axe as you go. Roghet draws back her spear, and is nearly upon Wyver, when you step between them at the last possible moment. Her strike clanks off your shield, and she reels back in shock, just as Wyver turns around.

  “How dare you, foolish peasant!” shouts the druid.

  “Roghet,” Wyver says sadly. “Must it come to this?”

  “No one will stand in my way!”

  The king nods. “Then, I daresay, I question who, between the two of you, is the fool.”

  Roghet’s jaw drops, and tears well in her eyes.

  “Have at her,” the king orders. He turns away to continue the fight.

  The druid screams and lunges at you, over and over. You block one blow, and dodge another, but the third catches you in the shoulder, and you reel in pain as she rips the spear’s serrated point out of your flesh. You counter with several swings of your axe, but she is too quick. She steps backward and starts to recite a mystical spell.

  Wyver’s encouraging words from the mock battle in the wood come back to you: ‘Those kinds of tactics… may turn out to be quite necessary… Your experience has shone through this day.’

  You brace yourself, and charge the druid in the middle of her chant. You crouch as you run, and bash her knee with your shield, which twists at an impossible angle. Roghet collapses and writhes in agony, and as you stand over her, you note a broken bone sticking out of her leg.

  “I don’t want to have to do this,” you note calmly.

  “Then… don’t,” the druid replies, tears streaming down her face.

  You bend over, to within inches of her face. “It is too late.”

  With that, you finish her with a blow to the heart.

  Such a shame, lost love.

  You growl at the goblin, “We don’t trust you,” and turn to begin sneaking past the hound, further into the tunnel.

  The goblin stamps its feet and flails its fists. “Then,” it shouts, “You leave me no choice!”

  It grips the cell bars with both hands, throws back its head and screams at such volume that you both cringe and cover your eardrums. The hound wakes and leaps to its feet, its eyes swimming in evil. You back up a step, but by the time you think to wield a weapon, it has knocked you to the ground and clamped its jaws around your jugular.

  You push and twist your body with all your might, but remain pinned, while Bartleby fumbles to ready his magical talisman. You feel your heartbeat send blood spurting out by the pint, onto the dirt floor, onto the prison bars and the dog, onto everything. All the while, the goblin claps his hands and cackles with delight, “What a show! What a show!”

  Finally, the cleric aims the talisman and focuses for a moment. A beam of bright energy erupts from it, and strikes the dog full in the chest. It keels over with a loud whine, and the smell of seared flesh pervades the air. Your companion approaches, and kneels over you.

  “This is bad…” he moans, “This is… quite bad.”

  “We’ve…” you groan, “got to get out of here.” You try to sit up.

  “No, don’t. Stay still.”

  The cleric holds his hands out over your wounds and concentrates. The spell envelops your neck with a white, opaque fog, some of which you breathe in, but it doesn’t tickle or irritate your lungs. If anything, it feels relieving. This continues for several moments, then the cleric relaxes and allows the fog to disperse.

  Bartleby hangs his head, and wrings his hands.

  “The wound won’t close,” he says, his voice wavering with panic, “It’s just too serious.” A pool of blood soaks your tunic, and is now altogether larger than you. You feel your eyes begin to roll backwards.

  “Stay here,” the cleric says, “I’ll get help.”

  Bartleby takes off, first further down the tunnel, and after a few moments, comes back and heads in the direction from where you first came. More time passes.

  “Filthy humans,” the goblin mumbles. It retreats to a corner of its cell, sits on a cot and curls into a ball, knees held to chin.

  Minutes stretch into hours, and you conclude that Bartleby either was downed or has had unusual trouble looking for an exit. Your head becomes faint as the life force drains out of you. While someone may eventually find you, you admit that at this point, it will be too late. Your final thoughts are ones of pride and gratitude, that while you know you have tried your best to save Fedwick, it’s good to know that others would attempt the same for you.

  Cruel fate has taken your life. Rise again
!

  Go back to the previous choice, or…

  Restart from the beginning.

  “Perhaps we do not need them, after all,” you theorize.

  “No need for a fight, on the chance it would turn out two against two,” Bartleby concedes.

  The two of you gather your supplies, return to the path, and quietly trek several miles further northeastward, before establishing a new camp many yards into the wood. You breathe a sigh of relief, and glance back in the direction from where you came.

  All of this occurs before you realize that only Zander knew precisely where Demetrius Argent is to be found.

  Surely we can find help.

  That wand sounds too good to be true, you think. The thought of forcing those Thomerion villains to heal your friend makes your mouth water.

  It might even be worth a temporary association with this kind of scum.

  You stare the goblin right in the eye.

  “Fine,” you whisper.

  You hand your torch to Bartleby, who stands by as you tiptoe around to the dog’s far side, where the key dangles temptingly. Taking great care not to skim the dog’s fur or skin, you reach over the hulking mass. A pebble at your foot skims over the floor, making scratching sounds, and the beast stirs.

  You wait, frozen, until its muscles calm and it returns to a normal pattern of snoring. You reach further and slip the key off its hook. As you hold it in your palm for a moment, you realize that you hadn’t been breathing, and inhale with great relief.

  You return to the cell door, and unlock it. The goblin barely contains his excitement; its tongue wags and it hugs you around the waist as it bounds through the opening. Whether you were more repulsed by the dog or by this creature could be a matter of debate.

  “Come,” the goblin whispers. He assumes the lead, and beckons you toward an area beyond the hound.

  Several hundred yards further down the tunnel, a tall, natural chamber sprawls for many yards, and contains few features, except one: A strange block of stone juts out from the rest of the surface of the far wall. You approach, and see that a short series of runes has been painted onto the wall just below the block.

  “It’s in one of the divine languages,” the goblin croaks, “But master always says it too quietly for me to hear…”

  Bartleby nudges his way between the two of you and toward the runes, where he scratches his chin. “Varlancia Departicos?”

  You grab his arm. “Wait just a…”

  The block glows for a moment, retreats into the wall, and shifts to the side, revealing a nook, within which a wand rests. The goblin snatches the wand, admires it for a moment, and takes several large strides toward the exit.

  “Stop,” you blurt in shock, “We made a bargain.”

  “Oh, we did, did we?” the goblin snips. It squints in concentration and waves the wand at you. Your mind fogs over, and suddenly you feel a strong craving for birdseed, or perhaps a spot of corn. The goblin repeats the process at Bartleby.

  As your head bobs and your arms flap in random circles, you wonder for several moments to where all your fellow chickens went. You see a humanoid sort of creature acting like one, mind you, across the chamber, but something about the situation doesn’t seem right. A memory of interacting with a green-skinned monster flashes by, but you can’t process it, and besides, any such monster left the area long ago. Its chuckles, though, reverberate down the tunnel from where you came.

  Was the mind control spell the wand cast permanent? It’s hard to say, at least for the first few days.

  Your quest has ended... or has it?

  Go back to the previous choice, or…

  Restart from the beginning.

  “One thing at a time,” you caution. “Let’s remain one group, even if it means we get less than we fully want at once.”

  “You show much trust in the universe, considering the stakes,” remarks Bartleby.

  “Just so long as it doesn’t look like I put myself above Fedwick.”

  Bartleby shakes his head.

  Your party searches for a short while, but soon, Zander declares he has found the entrance.

  Moving onward…

  With the vial of abbot’s blood stashed in your belt pouch, you borrow a horse from the monastery stable, and cover the distance back to the City of Storms within a day and a half. The hour runs quite late when you find Argent’s compound, but this time, he meets you at the mouth of the tunnel.

  “Am I the first one back?” you ask, glancing about.

  “It appears so,” the wizard concedes. “And, I see you were successful.”

  You nod, humble.

  “May the gods’ providence shine equally upon your companions. For now, would you care to retire for the night?”

  “’Twould be a blessing.”

  Argent guides you to his study once more, then opens a door you hadn’t noticed before, within a back wall. Inside is a nondescript but respectable living space, including a bed with crisped sheets and, as one could expect, a generous supply of reading material. He bids you good night as you sit, and closes the door behind you.

  You stare into space for several moments, and the sheer proximity of your goal hits you, deep within your soul. Yet, you think, how can I trust that things are as they appear? Every time I think we are close to healing Fedwick, another obstacle presents itself.

  You breathe deeply, and meditate.

  Can you hear me, friend? you pray. I will not give up.

  The next morning, during tea, you ask Argent about his defenses, to which he replies that he has established some frightening illusions relating to dragons, set to trigger if intruders enter the compound without his knowledge.

  “If only I could recruit the real creatures,” he laments.

  “You seem calm, even as you know you are a target.”

  “One cannot afford to live in fear,” he philosophizes, “for paralysis of the soul is worse than death.”

  At that moment, intense shuffling breaks out from somewhere in the compound. You and Argent exchange glances, put down your cups, stand and proceed to a viewing room, where Argent quickly casts a spell. An ethereal image arises on the otherwise blank wall in front of you, of two men running down the tunnel, jostling each other. You can’t tell their identities from the image’s murky detail.

  You hear laughter.

  “Stay here,” you advise, drawing your axe as you rush out of the room. You reach the compound just as two bodies burst out of the tunnel, but sigh in relief when you see that they are Bartleby and Zander.

  “Forgive us,” the cleric says, out of breath, “for we thought we could see who would make it here first.”

  “A spot of fun, as it were,” says the ranger.

  “I am just happy you made it back,” you rejoice, shaking hands with each. “Did you find what we need?”

  “Indeed,” Bartleby says, “The richest ladies in the kingdom couldn’t stand a chance at rummy.”

  You blink. “Wait. You… won a pearl of that size at cards?”

  He reaches within his pack, and takes out of it a specimen of perfect sheen and roundness. “You would think they would not be so loose with their assets,” he chuckles.

  You smirk, and turn toward Zander. “And you?”

  “After much digging around, I learned that the giants in the eastern steppe near Noblehorn own some domesticated gryphons. They are friendlier than you would guess, and were willing to bargain.” Similarly, he produces his ingredient with a flourish.

  You shake your head in amazement. “I wish I thought more like you two.”

  Bartleby chuckles again, and pats you on the back. “Thinking is overrated. You are a man of action.”

  “And, along those lines,” Argent interjects, “action is what we must take, with haste.”

  He leads the group to a workstation, where a small black vat sits over a controlled flame. Within it bubbles and boils a clear liquid, from which emanates a tart odor. An ancient book sits open on a ne
arby stool, a reed marking a specific page, to which Argent now refers.

  “This is the base solution,” he explains, “to which we first add the pearl.”

  Bartleby hands it over, and Argent holds it between two fingers for a moment. “It must be allowed to dissolve for exactly twenty-three seconds, at which time we add the abbot’s blood. Have it at the ready, if you please.”

  You nod, and uncork the vial. Argent turns back to the vat, bumping it. A small amount of liquid splashes out of it and onto the floor.

  “Must remember to take care,” the wizard mumbles, ignoring the steam rising from the stone underfoot. He drops the pearl into the vat, and together, you count off the requisite time. At fifteen seconds, Argent nods to you, and you hand the vial off. At the correct interval, he pours the blood in without incident. The bodily fluid swirls alongside the murky white grains of the dissolved pearl, tainting the solution a dank maroon.

  “Now, watch, if you will,” he instructs. He takes the gryphon feather, and begins stirring the potion with it. “This infuses the Bard’s Brew with the natural energies of the creature from whence the item came.” After a while, the potion starts to change color. It now shines a fluorescent green. Another moment later, it changes to a sky blue, then again to a bright apple red, and back to green again.

  “It seems to be stuck in some sort of cycle,” Zander observes.

  Without stopping his stirring, Argent scratches his head. “I cannot recall at the moment what to do next. Would you be so kind,” he asks you, “as to check?”

  You nod, cross behind the wizard toward the spellbook, and read:

  When thrice the potion’s shown its hues,

  Raise the flame and cook it through,