by Daniel Heck
“So, you are singers, eh?”
Vermouth curtsies and smiles.
“It so happens,” the man continues, head still down, “that your services could be used at an upcoming event in this area. For, you see, I am soon to mark my fifty-fifth year upon this earth.”
Vermouth gasps and says with thick drama, “Oh my! Is that true?” At the same time, she jabs her head in the direction of a shelf on the far wall. When you look there, you notice that upon it, just behind a bank of ancient books, sits a goblet of deep hue, marked with mottled swirls and a rough texture.
The Black Rose…
At that moment, the man looks up and sweeps his cards aside. You avert your gaze.
Vermouth continues, “In that case, good sir, a solo is called for. Would you care for a sample, just to cement that contract in your mind before we even draw it up?”
The man smirks, and stares straight at the mayoress. He scans her entire body as she moves closer, seductively throwing her hips from side to side.
How cocky must he be? you marvel.
Vermouth slinks into Thomas’s lap, and throws her arms around his neck, her gaze locking his. He chuckles, having the time of his life. She swivels the both of them around in the chair, so that the goblet is now at the man’s back. She coos, while stroking his hair and cheek,
“Happy birthday… to you,”
“Haaaappy birthday. To you.”
Bartleby tries to nudge you, but you have already snuck your way toward the shelf. You reach for the goblet on tiptoes…
“Happy birthday, dear Thomas,”
You grip the item you came for, carefully lower it to your level and slip it into your pack. The rustle makes just enough noise…
“Hey!” shouts Thomas, “What are you doing over there?”
Vermouth’s tone becomes angry. “Happy birthday to you!” She stands, digs a heel into the man’s chest, and shoves, sending him head over heels. The three of you run as fast as you can. You hear grumblings and curses from the study. “Stop them! Don’t let them out of the tower!”
By the time the orcblood personnel catch on, you have already hustled past most of them, and now hear, and feel, the rumbling thud of their pursuit behind you. At one tricky stair, you stumble, but catch yourself against the rocky wall, scraping your hands and wrists.
You make it out onto the street, to find that the half-dozen footmen return from the east. You cut a sharp right turn through the surrounding terrain, but find yourself against the walls of two adjacent buildings, facing a sheer cliff where the third would be. For all practical purposes, you are at a dead end.
“Our enemies close in fast!” Bartleby shouts.
“Now! You have no choice!” you command, while digging into your pack. “Activate the Black Rose now!” Shaking with adrenaline, you hand the goblet over to the mayoress, who nods in trepidation.
She raises the item over her head, and declares, “Gods, hear me! May the tempest of Thomerion be quenched! Sunbringer!”
The goblet glows red in her hands, and her eyes grow wide.
“Are you all right?” you ask.
Vermouth nods. “It’s like… it’s telling me how to use it. I can just… feel it. I need merely think what I want it to do.” And with that, she closes her eyes, and focuses on broadcasting her orders.
In every corner of every land on earth, skeletons and zombies, wraiths and other horrors raise their heads in cognition, and turn toward one point within a tiny country, ruled by orcbloods, called Koraxon. Most have never been there, nor would they ever be. But upon hearing their new master from afar, they retreat, climb back into graves, settle into coffins or fall upon the ground, inanimate. They do so gladly, feeling a renewed connection to the afterlife, as if one step closer to reclaiming their lost souls.
Then, the Black Rose vanishes.
You show the orcbloods that you have nothing of theirs in your possession, and they begrudgingly let you be on your way. By the time Thomas himself catches up, you are well on your way back home. Your chest swells, and your eyes well with tears of both relief and regret.
Fedwick would be proud.
You helped save Ambrosinia!
But is there more to the story?
Read through The Seal of Thomerion again to find out.
“This best be taken care of while it still can,” you postulate. Bartleby nods. Resolute, you wake Zander, and whisper in his ear what you have learned. Zander stares first at you in surprise, then at Mikhail, who still dozes.
The three of you gather around the elf and perform a silent count: “one, two, three…”
You kick Mikhail in the midsection, not to injure so much as to alarm. He wakes with a start and shouts, “What the…?”
Zander grumbles, “You have some explaining to do.”
The elf stands, and whirls about to each of you in turn, although none of you have a hand on him as of yet.
“What are you talking about?”
“The church of Thomerion,” you say, “sent someone to meet an elf at this location.”
Mikhail’s already pale skin turns whiter.
“We think,” Bartleby seethes, “he referred to you.”
Zander shouts, “What business could you possibly…”
The elf punches Zander in the gut, and the ranger doubles over. Seeing his opening, Mikhail begins to run back toward town, but only takes a few strides before Bartleby raises his sun god talisman; from it projects a focused blast of white light, which strikes the elf in the shoulder. The traitor screams and collapses, and the priest’s divine energy continues consuming the elf’s flesh, searing it to the bone.
You and Bartleby converge over him.
“I’ll take that,” you boast, “as an admission of guilt.”
Bartleby says to him, “Is there anything else you’d like to tell us, lest we send your soul to the flames of hell?”
“Thomerion… shall… prevail!”
With an exchanged glance, you and the cleric agree that you’ve gotten as much out of him as you will. It doesn’t seem appropriate to let him go, nor does killing him outright—your spirit won’t let you stoop to his level— so Bartleby mutters some rhythmic words while passing his hand over Mikhail’s eyes. The elf falls unconscious. The two of you grab some rope from your packs and are about to tie him to a tree, when a pang of curiosity rises within you.
“Wait,” you implore.
A quick search of Mikhail’s cloak pockets reveals, of course, the Black Rose, as well as the expected implements for a stealthy chap of his caliber, but also two articles that alarm you: a shiv with the Seal of Thomerion imprinted upon it, and a beaten parchment. You carefully open the latter.
It reads:
You are to rendezvous with our messenger when the moon is at its highest point. Upon confirmation that all proceeds according to plan, infiltrate the cavern and assassinate the wizard, then return his head, the goblet and this note to me.
Commander Grekk Del Arken
The name doesn’t ring a bell for you, but it sounds a lot like that of an orcblood. For elves and orcbloods to associate for any reason is unusual, but the additional connection between orcbloods and the Church of Thomerion strikes you as downright bizarre.
By the gods, you think, what is going on?
“Someone should be alerted,” Bartleby notes. He crouches and mutters a few words in an archaic tongue, toward a nearby squirrel. It glows for a moment, chirps briefly, then skitters off toward town.
You arch an eyebrow.
The cleric says, “It will carry our message to the authorities, and Mikhail should be taken into custody before dawn.”
“Have you ever encountered a situation for which you don’t have a spell of some sort at the ready?” you ask, amazed.
Bartleby smirks, just before you remember Fedwick’s predicament. You clear your throat and feel your cheeks flush. It is time to move on. The two of you relieve Mikhail of the goblet, work together to secure him, and wa
lk back to where Zander sits recovering.
The ranger looks up at you, saddened. “Is he…?”
You shake your head.
Bartleby says as he lays a hand on the ranger’s shoulder, “We’ve merely subdued him.”
Zander closes his eyes, full of unspoken sentiment.
The pain of a lost comrade… of being deceived…
You let several moments pass.
“So… What now?” you mutter.
“My trust in the universe may be eroded,” Zander says, “but if the gods be kind, we continue in the morning. After all, perhaps I should count our blessings, in that we are all still alive. Who knows in what ways the bastard could have used us?” Bitterness pervades Zander’s voice.
You and the cleric exchange glances.
“I shall resume watch,” Zander says, “You’ve certainly done your part.”
The two of you retire as the ranger turns to stare at the moon.
Come dawn, you rise with a crick in your back, but overall, you feel rested and relieved. Zander reports there were no further disturbances overnight. You prepare your horses and resume your ride in relative peace, while keeping an eye on a patch of storm clouds gathering strength in the northern sky.
An intriguing development...
“We should attempt your plan,” you say to Zander, who nods, removes his pack and retrieves from it a thick rope of tanned, well-aged fiber. In a flash, he ties a solid knot, and then adjusts the loop until it spans about ten inches wide. You take your place at the door’s peephole, to facilitate verbal instruction.
“You keep an eye on the time,” you request of the cleric. He turns and jumps in alarm. The hourglass’s top half now contains about half the sand it did when you got here.
Zander gets the knot through the U-portion of the funnel, but the straight section that runs to the back of the chamber proves trickier.
“You’d think that…” he says through occasional grunts while reaching into the funnel further and further, “the constriction of this space would actually make it possible to push a rope.”
“It’s doubling back on itself. Use your staff to stuff it in harder if you have to.”
“This reminds me of a joke,” Bartleby quips, “There once was a man, scheduled for hanging, and he…”
“Just a little bit more,” you interrupt, only to watch the rope stick near where the tube turns downward and back itself up into a wad.
“Stop. Try pulling it back out.”
He yanks hard, but the rope doesn’t budge.
“By the gods…” you mumble.
“I suppose we try the other plan now,” Bartleby groans, with a twinge of bitterness. All three of you retrieve your waterskins and begin pouring, but the blockage redirects the vast majority of water, such that it sloshes back out and onto the stone floor.
You throw your hands up and grumble a dwarven curse.
Zander takes a good long look at the hourglass.
“I hate to be the bearer of even more bad news,” he says, “but…”
At that moment, the last grain of sand drops to the bottom.
Everything turns white.
Uh-oh...
“The rope idea just seems like too much effort,” you huff, “Let’s fill the tank with water.” Zander frowns, but acquiesces.
You grant Bartleby the honor of pouring first, while observing through the peephole. The clear liquid sloshes and settles around the bottom third of the tank; Zander steps into the cleric’s place in front of the funnel and repeats the process. The rate of filling appears well ahead of the required pace; you may even have enough water left over for a celebratory swig, once the key is retrieved.
While you pour, Bartleby watches the tank, and soon, he declares, “The lever’s rising!” A thud rings out, followed by a short pop, and the door creaks open, releasing a small burst of steam into your faces.
“Huzzah!” you all shout. The end of the braided wire now lay in front of you; its glint entices your senses. You vaguely recall seeing an experimental implement of this nature long ago; memories of sparks and the smell of burnt metal ripple through you. Bartleby scratches his head as he scans the rest of the chamber, while Zander checks the hourglass.
“Time runs short,” he warns.
“Hand me the nearest torch,” you command. The ranger retrieves one from the wall, and hands it to you. You hold the torch to the end of the braided wire. Zander reels, and catches his breath.
“What are you doing?”
“Just watch.” Confidence bubbles inside your chest.
The thick strands catch aflame, burn quickly, and start to travel down the length of the wire, into the ground. Now, you can no longer see the flame, but hear the strange fizzing and hissing so vividly that you can tell it has already almost reached the opposite end. As you look through the second door’s peephole, the dancing orange bursts forth and snakes its way into the metal box…
Kablam!
The force of the explosion knocks you off your feet. At your frown, your companions help you up as you rub your bruised hip. The door to the ladder now stands wide open.
“We must act quickly!”
Zander and Bartleby enter the chamber, take opposite ends of the ladder, and feed it out into the open space as you take one final look at the key, as it hovers above you within the stone. Taking care to set up the steps below your target, your breathing accelerates and you feel a bead of sweat accumulate above your brow. The final layer of flowing hourglass sand taunts you from just within your peripheral vision.
You climb.
You undo a metal latch securing the glass tile, and let the toothed hunk of iron slide into your palm. You scurry down, and all three of you hustle toward the central door. Upon your turning the key, at the same instant the cylinders click, the hourglass tips, coming to rest on its side.
The double doors glide open. A moment passes.
Behind the doors, you find a small, rectangular antechamber. Banners of cream and sky blue hues line the far wall. A desk of ancient walnut sits underneath a blazing lantern. At the desk sits a bearded, mildly wrinkled man, whose pointed hat, robes and slippers all boast the shiniest silver tone you have ever witnessed. He finishes scribbling something on a parchment, and looks up at you.
“Good day, gentlemen,” he says, calm, and stands.
You all stare at each other for a few moments.
“Need I any introduction?”
“Erm…” Bartleby sputters, “Sir Argent, we…”
“You may call me Demetrius,” Argent interrupts.
“Demetrius,” you implore, “We are in need of your help. Since it appears we passed your test…”
The wizard stands and takes your hand in both of his. “Of course,” he acknowledges, at which point everyone begins talking at once:
“A close friend is dying…”
“We need to find a way to destroy…”
“It’s hard to know where to begin, but…”
Argent silences the room with a forceful gesture of outstretched hands. “Peace be in your hearts. One at a time, now.” He looks at you.
You explain Fedwick’s plight, then concede the floor to Zander as graciously as possible. He tells what he knows about the Black Rose.
Argent scratches his chin. “Please, come,” he beckons. “Let us sit as we talk further.” He leads you to a side room, and indicates a table with four sturdy chairs. He gathers a fistful of delicate cups and places one in front of each seat. Although the urgency of the situation strikes you as at odds with taking time for tea, you figure politeness is warranted, and settle into a chair. You realize how much tension you carry; your calves beg to be stretched and your shoulders ache.
Argent shares, “I had my suspicions about this artifact, ever since I first handled it years ago. If you will leave the Black Rose with me, I would like to perform some magical tests upon it.” He pours a deep brown liquid in your cup, and proceeds to do the same for others. You shuffle in
your seat a bit to accommodate him squeezing past, and you hear the crinkle of paper within your pack.
“Oh, yes,” you say, “There is one more rather… important thing we should mention. We discovered this upon the body of a spy.” You retrieve Mikhail’s note, and hand it to Argent, who squints at it, then begins to move his lips as he reads to himself. Several moments pass.
Argent looks up at you. “I am not surprised. Part of the purpose of this compound and the magical traps weaved within it is for personal protection, as I have long been perceived as a threat to the status quo. But this text…” he points at the general’s name, “Del Arken has great power. I can only guess that he would seek to abuse it via the goblet. What can it do that is worth harnessing, that is worth this much trouble?”
You sip the earthy tea, and listen intently.
“So,” Zander says, “The question becomes: what is our plan?”
I await an answer.
Feeling betrayed to your core, and with little left to lose, your emotions saturate every inch of your being. Your face flushes and your muscles pulse.
“Give in, young dwarf,” the man advises, “and I will rise again, as one of the greatest undead warriors of all.”
Bartleby and Crolliver stand behind you, hands on your shoulders, saying words that go right through one ear and out the other.
“Silence!” you shout, drawing your axe. Your companions try to hold you back, but you tear through their arms and attack the worshipper with all your might. Despite blow after sickening blow, as blood spreads everywhere, the man intersperses his screams of pain with bouts of howling, cackling laughter. The others, presumably to avoid guilt by association, run out of the room and clear out of the inn.
You realize you are out of breath, and stop, to look down upon a gory mess of a human body. Shouts from elsewhere in the building indicate that you’ve attracted some unwanted attention, so you drop your axe and open the door, to stand face to face with a pair of burly orcbloods.