The Seal of Thomerion
Page 26
Before they can react, you duck under their legs, crawl on the floor until you can stand again, and hightail it through the tavern. “What in blazes happened in there?” you hear the innkeeper shout. A horse stands tied to a post outside. You steal it, and steer it toward the main path just as more of the tavern’s clientele bursts through the doors to chase you.
You gallop into the wilds, without a clue as to how you will survive from here. Although Koraxon will not take the death of a major church figure lightly, you chuckle under your breath at one of the most satisfying kills of your life. Later, as you drift to sleep under the stars, you comprehend just how far from your original intent this quest deviated, and how quickly it did so. You ponder,
Would Fedwick approve?
Your travels cease here, but don’t give up.
Go back to the previous choice, or…
Restart from the beginning.
Something intangible speaks to you from within, in the sense of what it took to get to this point. After some thought, you instruct Argent to stop stirring when the potion turns bright red.
For several moments after he does so, the Bard’s Brew simply sits there and boils. Then, the pace of the bubbling increases, and the mixture crackles as the clanking of the undead militia grows louder and closer.
“Yes!” Argent shouts. “Yes! We’ve done it!”
“Quickly,” you order, “We need to save enough for Fedwick and the Black Rose, but I have an idea for the rest.”
The others take pots off the shelves, and scoop large quantities of Bard’s Brew from the vat. You remove your tunic and wrap your hands in it, then grip the vat’s hot handles. You haul it into the main chamber, its girth forcing you to waddle as you go, just as skeletons burst out of the tunnel and barrel toward you with swords drawn.
You tip the vat, spilling its contents onto the stone floor. As the oblivious undead run straight into the mess, their feet dissolve under them, then their legs, and within moments the compound is saturated with liquid bone. Not one enemy makes it anywhere near you, Argent, or the goblet.
The stuff merely dampens your boots as you confidently stroll back to the laboratory, where Argent has already retrieved the Black Rose.
“Would you care to do the honors?” he asks.
You hold the goblet in your hands for a little while, and reflect. The pain it has caused, the evil it carried, all comes to an end now. You drop it into the liquid, and watch. The potion envelops the item, like it has a mind of its own. Suddenly, the goblet cracks and breaks into dozens of pieces, which sink to the bottom like stones in a riverbed.
All present erupt in cheers. You hug your friends, as the significance of their help buoys your spirit toward the heavens. You stash a corked vial of Bard’s Brew in the pocket of your tunic, and thank Argent profusely, who professes in turn how he learns something from every adventure.
“As in, slow down when mixing potions,” he jokes. You laugh.
Zander and Bartleby follow as you exit the compound. The ranger teases you about how he’ll collect his due, and how that was what made the whole thing worthwhile. He turns and heads toward the prairie.
It’s just the two of you now.
“As long as everyone has something to say about it, Bartleby,” you say on the journey back to the capital, “What was your real motivation for helping me?”
The cleric smirks, but keeps walking. “Would I lie to you?”
“I don’t know. Would you?”
“Curiosity,” he answers. “Service to my ideals. But one reason stands above all others.”
You pause. “What is that?”
“Because… Fedwick is my godfather.”
You halt in place, stunned. Bartleby continues for a few steps, then turns toward you.
“He never told you he converted to the sun god? Even the youngest of budding clerics needs a role model.” At this, your quest partner’s eyes shine with pride.
You make it back to your hut without further incident, and proceed without pause to the bedroom, where an attendant lay beside Fedwick. You approach, open Fedwick’s mouth, and slowly pour the potion down his throat. Before the vial is even half-empty, your brother and lifelong friend jolts upward and launches into a violent coughing fit. The two of you embrace.
“What happened?” he grumbles.
Your grin stretches from ear to ear. “It’s a long story.”
You have saved both Ambrosinia and Fedwick, the ultimate victory!
Keep reading The Seal of Thomerion for more alternate endings.
Something about the name Vagrants’ Canyon puts you off, and although you also wonder what you’ll find in the other direction, you recommend the eastern trail to the others, who vehemently agree.
An eerie grayness casts over the sky as you travel. You realize at one point that you run low on rations, but ripe apples from an untended orchard help compensate for this. Now and again, Zander comments upon how the tracking has become easier, given how Mikhail leaves behind scraps of miscellany. No concrete indication that the elf might be nearby, however, presents itself, even as your muscles ache and the sun retreats underneath the hills.
“I’d prefer not to admit it,” you say, “but the best way to find Mikhail may be to push through the night.”
“And what then?” Bartleby gripes, “We have no guarantee of finding him. He surely knows of many ways in which to hide.”
“Better to give ourselves a small chance than none,” Zander counters, although his voice carries as much fatigue as the cleric’s.
The party lights torches and continues riding, moderating its pace so as to not lose the trail. The moon has climbed a considerable distance when the thick underbrush gives way to rocks, dirt and pebbles. Cricket chirps echo in the cool air. The terrain begins to hurt your horses’ hooves, so you leave them to rest at a nearby spring and continue on foot.
The ranger halts, and scans the emptiness.
“You should know better than to have come here, Zander,” intones a familiar voice.
Out of the shadows of the cliffs slinks Mikhail. An intense scowl dominates his countenance. Zander approaches him, but the elf extends a hand in a halting gesture. They stand inches apart, leagues of shared experiences separating them.
“All I ask,” the ranger says, “Is that you explain what’s going on. We had a partnership, a goal, and then it all just…”
“All you need to know,” the elf interrupts, “Is that now, you have seen too much.” He shouts over his shoulder, “We have company!”
There soon appear two additional men, the first a stout, gray-haired human carrying a talisman and wearing black and red robes. The other, a scarred, shirtless orcblood, towers over all of you. He flares his nostrils and pounds a fist into his palm.
The robed man rubs his eyes and asks Mikhail, “What business have you with these ruffians?”
“We were on our way to the wizard, but they turned out to be more disruptive than helpful,” Mikhail answers with a dismissive wave.
“The Black Rose,” grumbles the orcblood, “represents something far greater than your pathetic minds could comprehend.”
“To interfere is blasphemy,” adds the robed man.
The three of them advance. You draw your axe, and step back.
Zander asks, “Must it come to this?”
“Thomerion shall be pleased,” Mikhail responds.
The elf performs a backflip to one side, throwing off Zander’s balance, then slashes the ranger’s Achilles with a hidden shiv. Your companion collapses in a heap, holding his foot and screaming in pain.
You react quickly, and swing your axe at the traitor’s head, but the blow clangs off a gigantic shield. The orcblood carrying it has stepped between the two of you.
Bartleby shouts a primal cry, charges the brute and attempts to wrench its arm behind its back, but the orcblood hip-tosses the cleric against a dead tree. The robed man raises his talisman at the stunned cleric and cackles as black energy be
gins to gather around the item, but with a thunk an arrow lands in his shoulder. He shouts and tumbles backward.
You glance toward the prone ranger, who holds his longbow in front of him, his arm cocked to nock another missile.
“I’m not dead yet!” he exclaims through gritted teeth.
Mikhail strips his companion of the shield, dashes toward the ranger and bashes him across the skull with the shield’s metal edge, knocking him out. The orcblood draws a sword and calmly approaches Bartleby. You see an opening, and attack the monster full on, but he turns just in time to parry your blow, tangle the shaft in his arm, and wrench your weapon free of your grasp.
A second later, Bartleby seems to come to his senses, just in time to watch the orcblood’s sword pierce his heart.
The moment stretches on for what seems an eternity.
“Nooo!” you scream, as rage and sadness explode from within you like a supernova.
The monster roars, “Who else dares challenge the alliance?”
Fear replaces all else within you. You turn, and run. You run for mile after mile, through the countryside in random directions, your instinct propelling you toward whatever tiny chance of survival remains, until you can run no more. Heaving and wheezing, you let yourself fall into a patch of clover, and stare up at the merciless stars.
What have I done? How is it right that two should die to save one?
You command yourself not to return to town, not to involve any more innocent lives. But you also know you cannot survive for long in the wild. Whatever larger plans these evil men referred to, you are now just one dwarf, alone and powerless to stand against them.
Better opportunities await you. Try again!
Go back to the previous choice, or…
Restart from the beginning.
“If this is where this symbol-searching leads us,” you grumble, “I’d just as soon change my mind.”
You lead the group back to where you stood when you first told the halfling to put away his whistle.
Let’s try that idea after all.