by Daniel Heck
Cruel fate has taken your life! Go back to the beginning of the cavern, or start again entirely.
You watch at rapt attention as the wheel slows. You arch an eyebrow as the section on which the key sat before stops in front of you once again. The entire wheel glows red briefly.
Hrm…. It seems like it shut down.
You grip the wheel by the edge one more time to test the theory. Indeed, when you try to move it, the wheel won’t budge.
Indeed.
That’s all she wrote…
“Celestine,” you call out, “I have another role for you.
“Oh?”
“You need to stand out here to provide an obvious target.”
Celestine sputters, “But… what if he tries to hurt me? Or kill me? We have no idea what will happen.”
“That’s right,” you admit. “We don’t. But we only get one chance. We need someone to occupy him temporarily so I can get the perfect shot.”
Your elf friend swallows, pauses, then says, “I’ll do it.”
The price of blind loyalty… you think, I hope we don’t regret this choice.
You and Fedwick hide in your designated spots. Celestine leans against the ornate marble base of the Moonbow Arch itself and starts gazing at the clouds, and as time passes, the stars.
Finally, just as the moon marks a third of the way up its nightly ascent, a steel-gray dragon slowly descends upon the clearing. Its rider, clearly the same masked man you encountered in town, holds a torch in his free hand, lighting the immediate area.
You quietly load your blowshaft, then wait.
Thomerion’s possessed dismounts and quickly scans the clearing. It zeroes in on Celestine. With each foreboding step, the fear in her face grows all the more.
“I sense you,” it grumbles, “Once again, I remind you: you cannot deny your fate. Once my sacrifice is complete, I will be whole again, and the whole of this world shall…”
Seeing the elf’s face clearly in the torchlight, the masked man stops abruptly. He slowly strokes her face with two fingers. Your friend visibly shakes but stands her ground. The steel-gray dragon moans in displeasure as its master now stands perfectly still. “You,” the man intones, “You are not whom I seek.”
Now…
You aim, inhale deeply and fire.
The dart sails true, hitting the man square in the jugular. He emits a strange ‘herk’ sound, then reaches toward his neck to try to extract the dart, but it already does its work: His eyes flutter and soon, his entire body crumples to the ground in a heap.
You and Fedwick surround the man as Celestine holds a hand to her chest, trying to breathe. You check your pack, only to find that you failed to bring rope.
“Does anyone have anything that can keep him immobile,” you ask, “should he wake up anytime soon?”
Celestine and Fedwick shake their heads.
You sigh. “We’d… better be quick, then.”
Without reaching into uncomfortable places, you examine the unconscious body. In its vestment pocket you find an item that robs you of your breath entirely: A wooden talisman of the god of the sun, with its eight radiating rays and welcoming central face.
So… he stole this! But that means…
You reach forward and tear off the man’s mask. Although marred my decomposition, a familiar face lay before you. The body Thomerion’s servant chose to reanimate and employ for its most nefarious deeds is none other than…
“Bartleby,” you whisper, “My love. Oh, my dear love.”
Celestine lays a gentle hand on your shoulder. “That’s why he hesitated so strongly back at the capital. Bartleby’s spirit was fighting to reclaim him, and knew you were too.”
Steeling yourself and remembering why you’re here, you turn toward Fedwick. “What needs be done now?”
The dwarf grumbles, “I need to recite a chant I learned from the Impactium, but gol’ durn it, I can’t remember how many times to chant it. Four? Five, or six… One of those.”
Consider the number of letters in the keywords you have gathered when deciding what to do next.
How many times should Fedwick chant?
Four times.
Five times.
Six times.
Thomerion’s possessed is a powerfully magical being, you remind yourself, and it just isn’t worth putting someone’s life so directly in harm’s way.
Instead of proposing that Celestine serve as bait, you instruct both the others to hide within the shadows of the trees surrounding the clearing.
“It’s all goin’ to be up to you, eh?” Fedwick grunts.
You hitch up your pants by the belt loops in a display of confidence. “I can handle it,” you assert.
You all take your positions, then wait. Early nighttime looms when you finally see that your instinct in coming here was right: a steel-gray dragon with masked rider, carrying a torch, lands precisely underneath the Moonbow Arch.
Your pulse races, and you struggle to keep your breathing as quiet as possible. You load your blowshaft, keeping an additional dart at the ready.
“Gods and goddesses of the past, hear me,” the man intones as he dismounts, “for the time of your demise is nigh. You banished me from the realm of heaven. Now I shall banish you in turn.”
The man hands the torch to his dragon, retrieves a talisman from a small pack and raises it above his head, gripping the edges with both hands.
This is the best opening you’re going to get.
Now…
You inhale, aim and fire.
The dart sails an inch in front of his neck, hitting the ground beyond with a soft thunk.
Without a word, the man whirls about and commands his dragon to torch the surrounding forest, which it does. As leaves and twigs alike burn, producing choking smoke, you think you see Celestine and Galumnuk rush Thomerion’s possessed, but the man easily blasts each to the ground with a ray of divine energy.
Will I end up similarly weeded out of existence?
Don’t let evil win. Keep adventuring! Go back to the previous choice, or start again from the beginning.
You think for a moment, then reply, “If your partner is willing to do his share for fifteen silver, shouldn’t you be, also, after all?”
You rise, turn your back on Tickers, open your belt pouch and presumptuously start counting coins.
“Partner…” Tickers spits, “I wouldn’t consider this dolt my partner if he was the only goblin left on earth.”
Nickers drops the sword hilt on the dirt floor, turns and spits back, “What do you know? You couldn’t have properly learned magic if all the goblins on earth were teaching you at once!”
“Shut up!”
Tickers throws a hammer at Nickers, which he barely ducks. The smith countercharges the wizard, grunting and yelling all the while.
You step between the two, into an interceptive position. They flail their fists and struggle against you as you hold their tiny skulls at arm’s length.
“This is unacceptable! Stop this, please,” you shout.
“Filthy human!” they shout back in unison. “Get out!”
You reel. “But… I need the sword…”
Nickers retrieves a wheelbarrow while Tickers wraps himself around your legs. Unable to run, you watch helplessly as the smith pushes the barrow into you, and you tumble bum-first into it. As you lay there stunned and pain shoots through your hip, they roll you out of the shop and unceremoniously dump you in a patch of mud.
Who knows what it will take to make the sword work now… you admit, as the breeze whips your cold, wet blouse against your skin and your pitiful mess of hair into your eyes.
Your travels end here. But don’t give up. Return to the previous choice, or start again from the beginning.
Feeling combative, you slowly draw your dagger, even as trepidation and self-doubt creep into your core. You bite your lip and struggle to keep your breath in control.
What am I doing? you wonder. I’m not train
ed in fighting these kinds of creatures! What if it sees me coming? What if…
You frown at your cowardice, and would hold a hand to your heart, if both weren’t now full with a torch and a weapon, respectively.
My friends, my saviors… those who have helped me. Be with me as I face this test of bravery and return your favor.
You glance one more time down the tunnel and at the ogre.
You start to pad down the tunnel on tiptoe…
You fear it could turn around at any moment…
You’re almost upon it, and it’s still occupied.
You pick your mark, line up your strike and bury your dagger in the monster’s back. It half-roars, half-gurgles in agony, but then manages to stand, just as you retract the weapon and note that it only sunk in by a couple inches; the ogre’s tough hide prevented a stronger wound.
Nevertheless, blood now spurts from the ogre, painting the cavern walls a grotesque maroon. It whirls around toward you; you duck just in time to avoid a wild swing of his club, which smashes a nearby stalactite into dozens of shards.
“Abomination!” you shout, “Why are you not dead?”
The ogre flails with its free fist, which strikes you in the hip, forcefully knocking you down. You land hard and scrape your knees on jagged pebbles, but have no time to wince; the ogre’s rage appears doubled upon sensing your vulnerability.
Upon getting up, you are reminded of the boots you acquired from the wheel.
I need more space…
You lure the chief to the main chamber, where you begin a cat-and-mouse game. Employing the boots’ magic, you jump, leap and roll from one corner to the next in an attempt to wear out your opponent. He follows you and swings his club over and over, but only ends up crushing more rock. True to your suspicions, the ogre starts to heave and cough, and eventually spins with dizziness.
The blood loss is taking its toll…
Just after one particularly poor strike, the ogre finds himself having turned in a complete circle. It grunts pathetically, trying to find you. You see the opening, pick up the core of a broken stalactite, close the distance and bash the ogre at the base of the skull. It collapses with a tremendous crash, then lies lifeless.
Heaving intensely, you sit and take time to calm.
Did I just… do that?
Surprising yourself in the process, you smile.
I did. Didn’t I?
You shake your head and remind yourself that you have a quest to accomplish. After reentering the tunnel, you thoroughly search the ogre corpse, but to your shock, the monster was carrying nothing of particular value, not even silver.
I certainly would have noticed the shield earlier, had he been using it.
You refuse to lose heart.
Far more of the cavern lay ahead.
I can hardly believe I’m about to try this… you reflect as your more lawful side screams from within. Yet, it seems that Ma won’t let you have the amulet otherwise.
“Well, since you ask,” you say, casually continuing the small talk as if nothing about this were strange, “I do the odd thing here and there. I used to be mayoress of Sungaze, however.”
The halfling nods, evidently intrigued. “I’ll bet you got to rub shoulders with a lot of the bigwigs, didn’t you?”
You increase your fake enthusiasm. “Absolutely. All the time,” you reply with a gesture, even as most officials with whom you interacted at the time would hardly qualify as more than a glorified desk clerk or bookkeeper.
“Why did you leave that post?” Ma continues, “Surely there were a lot of perks you’d have to give up.”
Unsure of how to answer, you improvise. You glug your tea quickly, down to the bottom of the cup, pretending that you were in the middle of the swig when she asked.
“Oh, my, it seems I’m empty. Could you get me some more? It’s very fragrant, very pleasant.”
Ma perks her eyebrows, stands and takes your cup. Lucky for you, she left the pot in the kitchen.
“Very kind of you to say so. I would be happy to refill.”
She shuffles through the side door one more time. You immediately approach the mantle, grab the shoe, stuff it under your blouse and dart toward the exit.
The side door opens. “Going so soon?” Ma asks, having needed only a few seconds to pour tea.
You emit an awkward titter, then smile wide. “I just realized, I’m to meet with someone at high noon for a date.”
Ma ignores this. “Wasn’t there something you wanted to ask about? And what’s that under your top?”
You push the door open, barrel down the hillside and dash toward town. “Wait!” you hear behind you, “Come back here this instant!”
Only when you’re sure she didn’t call for the authorities to chase you down do you stop running. Heaving and gasping for breath, you reach under your blouse, pull out the item and find that it’s returned to what you presume is its original state: a large gold chain, onto the edge of which is attached a flawlessly inset, heart-shaped sapphire.
If the amulet is sentient enough to transform itself, you wonder in amazement, maybe this is its way of recognizing when it acquires a new owner.
Doing your best to attract minimal attention, you trek back to the town square, where you hope against hope that your two companions were able to accomplish their parts of this mission.
I hope I’m in time…
He seems to want more than his companion, you ponder, as if he deserves some kind of special treatment.
You put a finger to your chin in thought.
Then again…
“Listen, Tickers,” you state, “this task is really important. I offer you fifty gold, but under one condition. Stay focused. No fighting. Got it?”
He nods. “Okay.”
You sigh in relief.
“Half ahead of time.”
Tickers stands before you with his palm out, expectantly facing up.
“Wait a minute,” you protest, “that is not the normal smith’s policy.”
“Is new policy. We decided upon it together.”
Nickers turns and smiles at his companion.
You groan, open your belt pouch and start to count coins, only to find you’re well short of what you said you’d pay…
“I… may need to retract my offer.”
The goblins gasp. “A noblewoman, going back on her word?” they blurt in unison.
“All right, all right,” you placate. “But let me go get my finances in order, and I’ll be back in a short while.”
Dumbfounded, the pair stare at you as you leave the shop.
It takes forever to find the local banker. You barely scrape up from him what you need—taking out a loan in the process, as it turns out—and return to the smith’s exasperated.
The goblins, and the sword, are nowhere to be seen.
“Mrrmmrmrmph…”
Upon closer inspection underneath a large workbench, you find the smith himself, tied up, gagged, bruised and nearly naked. After you free him, he explains how the goblins robbed him and threatened him with further physical harm should he rebel.
You shake your fist at no one. By the gods…
Better opportunities await. Read another path! Return to the previous choice, or start again from the beginning.
What do you do?
I spin the wheel lightly.
I spin the wheel hard.
I leave the chamber.
After some time, you explain, “You know, on second thought, perhaps it would be best if you just do the forging. I shall figure something else out for the other part of what I need.”
Tickers shrugs and replies, “Suit yourself.”
You sit on a barrel, munch on an apple and wait as Nickers completes his work. Soon, he shows you the reunited sword: every piece right where it belongs, with barely any seams or metallic nicks visible where they used to be broken. The weapon gleams ominously at you, reflecting the light of the nearby forge.
You gasp gleefully
as you grip the hilt, “You even polished it! Oh, how beautiful.”
Tickers bows in gratitude. You pay the fifteen silver, wish the goblins ‘good day’ and leave the shop.
Outside, you take a few swipes at open air with the sword. While it’s not as heavy as the smiths made it sound, you’d still prefer your dagger any day of the week, and would have no problem if Galumnuk were to use the sword instead in the forthcoming battle.
That’s assuming… you remind yourself, that we get that far. One thing at a time.
You look up at the gathering cloudbanks and get an idea: to take the sword to one of the prominent hilltops outside the City of Storms.
“After all,” you say aloud with wispy wonderment, “lightning almost always strikes the highest thing it can find.”
As you trek, you find yourself praying, for one of the only times in your life, for the weather to get worse. And that it does: the skies turn unnaturally dark once the treehouses of the agrarian elf community come into view. Every branch in every tree now sways with the wind, and soon, a downpour begins.
Ambrosinia had better be thankful for all this effort, you half-joke with yourself as you spit out a clump of your soaked hair.
Finally, you find and climb a knoll with few enough trees and open enough ground, then stab the sword into its apex. The weapon sinks into the moist soil easily.
“Now I have to wait out here,” you mumble, aloud again, to no one.
You put considerable distance between yourself and the Sword of Dragon Lore. Refusing to sit in the mud, you opt instead to lean against the nearest cherry tree, about fifty yards away.
Within many minutes of this process, however, you start to realize how you’d underestimated the luck you’d need. The rain now chills you straight through your clothing, and you blink and wipe your face repeatedly just to keep a view of the confounded weapon. Thunder booms occasionally, deafening you, but so far no lightning flashes, let alone strikes exactly at the spot you need.