Split the Party

by Drew Hayes

  “That’s a lot to break through,” Bert reminded him. “I’m just glad Wimberly took the time to build plenty of her mobile rolling-bombs.” The large man glanced down at his character sheet and was clearly struck by a realization as he skimmed his inventory. “Hey, Russell, this Earhorn of Whispers I found a while back, am I allowed to use it to listen to what’s going on inside the tower?”

  “Technically, yes.” Russell laid down the last metal figurine and sat back in his chair, quickly consulting the module book to make certain his answer was correct. Technically, as Game Master, he always had the right to overrule something he felt hindered play, but the items his players had picked up were well-balanced, and thus far had only served to keep things a bit more interesting. “As long as you point it at the tower and jam the other end in your ear, you get a check. It’s going to be a high one, though, fair warning.”

  “May as well go for it.” Bert tossed a die across the table, where it bounced several times before coming to a rest next to Cheri’s glass of soda.

  “Ten,” Cheri informed them, before rolling the die back across to Bert.

  “Which, with my bonuses, adds up to eighteen.” Bert caught his D20 and set it back in the pile with the other matching dice in his set.

  “Ouch, close, but no cigar,” Russell said, skimming the book’s page. “You’d have needed a twenty to make out even whispers, and that’s the last shot you’re getting. I mean, unless you want to burn a round of combat.”

  “Screw that, Wimberly has traps to set,” Bert announced.

  Russell flipped back through the module to where the battle was set up, moving away from the page detailing what was needed to hear inside the tower. Had Bert made the check, then Russell would have turned to the next page and perhaps gone a bit pale upon reading the description. The mages inside were, according to the module’s current text, discussing what to do, if anything, with the strange artifact they’d gathered together to study. Though they had yet to touch or activate it, their studies indicated it had curious properties that might influence the world around them, though they weren’t sure how.

  One mage did have a working theory, however. He thought this artifact seemed to be linking to worlds other than theirs . . . almost as if it were some sort of bridge.

  Chapter 31

  Passing through the door, or rather the crack in its center, was like stepping into a new world. No longer was the party surrounded by crudely carved tunnels and haphazard caverns. The walls in this new place had been built with care, intricate designs woven into the white rock, not unlike those upon the door that had barred them from the catacombs. Along the tops of the walls stood chiseled torches that burned with blue flames and cast flickering light across the tiled stones in the floor.

  Eric held his breath as he entered, waiting for a spell from the priest or some unseen trap to suddenly strike, killing or wounding them while they were all bunched together. Neither came, and for a moment, Eric allowed himself to feel relieved. Then his gaze traveled forward, noting that the short hallway came to an abrupt end branching into three tunnels, each with torches burning down as far as his eyes could see. There was nothing else to see, no other clue as to which way they should go—nor, as might have been more useful, which way the priest traveling ahead of them had already gone.

  “Seems we’re supposed to pick a direction,” Talcia observed, he and Fritz being the last to make it through the crack.

  “Ordinarily, that would have been the prudent move, but I’m afraid prudence is not a luxury the time-strapped can afford.” Thistle looked the group over, his eyes darting back and forth so quickly that Eric could practically see the wheels in his small head turning. “Finding whatever is hidden here is goal number three, catching the priest goal number two, and, obviously, surviving is goal number one. Best chance at two of those is to split into three groups. We need a capable warrior in each, along with someone who has at least a passing familiarity with magic. So, Gabrielle, Eric, and Fritz will take the tunnel to the left. Timuscor and Talcia will go up the middle, leaving Grumph and me to take the tunnel to the right.”

  “Why are we in the group with three?” Gabrielle asked. Even as she spoke, Eric knew she already had to be aware of the answer. Thistle had done a quick patch job on her, but their barbarian was far from at full strength. It was amazing she was even able to walk around after the fall she’d taken; asking her to carry the full weight of combat was too much.

  “Because we had uneven numbers, and you’re the only one hurt so far.” Thistle wasn’t cruel about the answer, but he didn’t bother pulling punches either. Gabrielle took the answer silently, though the scowl on her brow spoke scrolls’ worth.

  It was possible she might have fought him more, but with time working against them, there was no chance for discussion. Thistle had scarcely managed to get the orders out before Timuscor and Talcia were heading for the center tunnel. Grumph began to move too, and Thistle hurried to catch up. Eric was quickly left standing alone with a fuming barbarian and an elven trader who, he noticed, was trying to pry one of the stone torches off the wall.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Torch that never runs out of fire is pretty useful to a lot of folks. I can get at least a hundred gold or so for this.” Fritz gave a firm tug—which failed to so much as rattle her prize—before giving up and letting go. “Unfortunately, it looks like whoever made this place knew that. The thing is really jammed in there.”

  “Let’s go.” Gabrielle, it seemed, was done taking slight and had decided the best way to show everyone up was to get the job done. She cut a brisk pace toward the left, moving so fast that Eric and Fritz had to break into light jogs to close the gap between themselves and her. The axe she’d come back with was tightly gripped in her hand, ready for use at the slightest provocation. A dozen questions rested on Eric’s tongue, stopped only by the forceful closing of his lips. He wanted to know where she’d gotten it, how it had cut through that magical shield, and why he’d seen her wince when gripping it. All of that would have to wait, though. At the moment, the only things that mattered were finding what was inside this place and making sure the evil priest didn’t get his scheming hands on it.

  Well, scheming “hand,” actually. Eric chuckled to himself at the piece of dark humor. Good-hearted as he was by nature, seeing the thralled corpses of over a hundred innocent people had removed any sense of empathy he might have felt for the villain in gray robes.

  * * *

  Kalzidar, in his divine wisdom, bestowed upon his devout followers the ability to block out large amounts of pain. This was done less as a kindness—after all, he wasn’t really that kind of god—and more as a necessity. Those who worshipped evil gods tended to be self-serving, meaning they were prone to betraying others of their ilk if it would save them from pain and torture. Dulling their sensations of injury allowed them to withstand such circumstances, and thus helped evil flourish. Of course, there were limits to what a blanket blessing bestowed on his servants was able to do, a fact the priest was realizing as he skittered down the stone hallway, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in the stump where his arm was supposed to be.

  He didn’t know how that bitch with the axe had cut through his shield, and the charred, broken remains of the talisman that had conjured it weren’t giving him many clues to work with. In the span of a few minutes, he’d gone from being the leader of an undead army, protected by a magical barrier he’d spent weeks crafting, to a one-armed fugitive desperately trying to fulfill his god’s wishes before a group of do-gooder adventurers came to claim the rest of his limbs.

  His hand hovered near the bag still stuffed with folded paper creations. Tempting as it was to unleash them on his pursuers, he might as well be leaving hand-painted signs that told them which way he was going. Better to save attacking for when the time demanded it. So long as he could stay hidden and ahead of them, he had a better chance at uncovering the treasures hidden in the tomb. Once those were in
his grasp, he’d once again have the advantage.

  And this time, he was going to tear them apart before they even had a chance to react.

  * * *

  Timuscor and Talcia said little as they hurried down the stone hallway. Torches were always burning, no matter the twists and turns their path took them on. Idly, Timuscor wondered if they’d been lit ever since this place was constructed, or if the act of entering these catacombs had somehow activated them. Magic made no more sense to him than the softly muttered ramblings of a drunkard, so he’d have taken either explanation at face value, had Talcia offered it. However, since Timuscor never bothered to ask such a question, Talcia naturally didn’t provide an answer.

  Instead, the elven mage held his staff out, mumbling words on occasion and sending a pulse of light racing ahead. It seemed to do nothing, as they could already see up to their next turn, but with each successful pulse of light, Talcia looked relieved . . . at least until he cast it again. After the fourth iteration of such an event, Timuscor could hold his tongue no longer.

  “We can already see just fine.”

  “Of course we can.” Talcia sounded like he was humoring a child, answering in agreement to an obvious statement that they both knew was true.

  “Then why do you keep trying to light the way?”

  “Light the . . . ohhhh, I see your confusion. No, my boy, this is not a spell to merely throw a bit of light. I’m casting a minor incantation to illuminate any sources of potential danger ahead. Hidden traps, magical runes, anything of that sort will glow if hit by my spell.”

  “That seems quite useful.”

  Talcia shot the armored man a wink before raising his staff once again. “Some of us in the guild got our experience the old-fashioned way: by doing stupid things like raiding ancient vaults for clearly cursed items. It paid to have a few utility spells under my belt.” He began to cast once more, holding the end of the incantation until they turned the next corner before releasing his spell forward into the new area before them.

  It flew forward as before, but this time, it quickly widened, as, after only a few feet, the tunnel opened up into a massive square room. It was filled with decorative tiles across the floor, walls, and ceiling, with nothing inside save for a single exit at the other end of its sizable expanse. Just as Talcia and Timuscor were registering how vast the space before them was, the spell hit, and everything lit up like a winter bonfire. Every single tile began to glow, flickering as Talcia’s spell ran over them.

  The two men stood there, dumbfounded by their predicament, as the spell came to an end and the final tiles joined their brethren in the illuminated display. No surface was unstained by the magical glow, leaving Talcia and Timuscor with quite the problem.

  Going forward meant passing through an entire room full of traps, and going back meant possibly letting their quarry get away. Slowly, the sound of his heavy armor rattling with every movement, Timuscor turned from the room to face Talcia.

  “I don’t suppose you have a spell for this, too?”

  * * *

  “It strikes me that perhaps you left out some details when telling of the time you spent in Cadence Hollow.” There was no accusation in Thistle’s tone; such emphasis would have been pointless with Grumph. The two had known each other far too long to bother with petty sniping. Thistle was merely stating an observation; how Grumph responded was up to him.

  “We were in a hurry.”

  “Aye, that we were, old friend. Tell me this, though; do you know where Gabrielle got her new weapon from?” Though Grumph was going at a moderate pace, Thistle jogged alongside his friend to keep up. The option of being carried was, of course, still viable, but outside of an emergency, the gnome couldn’t bring himself to bear such indignity.

  “No,” Grumph admitted. “I was training.”

  “Perfectly understandable, given the task you had to accomplish, though I do wish we knew more. The way it cut through that shield was, well, fascinating, to put it mildly.” Thistle kept his tone neutral, but in truth, he was bothered by far more than the blade merely breaking through a barrier. When it had done so, for just the briefest of instants, he’d felt a surge of nausea in his gut. Admittedly, his stomach was already churning from being so close to cursed artifacts and a priest of Kalzidar, yet he was certain the sensation had increased in that moment, if only for a heartbeat. That matter, unfortunately, would have to wait until they managed to finish the task at hand and, hopefully, escape the damned mountain.

  A turn in the tunnel led them to an open room, occupied only by what seemed to be a makeshift altar. Thistle threw up his hand the moment it came into view, stopping Grumph from going forward before he had laid so much as a toe in the room. Thistle could just make out an exit on the other side, but he was under no illusions that reaching it would be quite that easy.

  “Trap?” Grumph rumbled.

  “Almost has to be, doesn’t it?” Thistle stepped carefully forward, still holding up his hand to keep Grumph from moving, and laid a tentative foot on the room’s floor. His breath held in his chest as his small heart hammered so hard he could feel it in his ears. Thistle thought he saw a flicker on the altar, but it was gone so fast he felt unsure. Walking carefully, one step at a time, he went further into the room, all the while expecting to activate a hidden trap or encounter some monstrous beast. Instead, he was greeted by a very sizable amount of nothing.

  Thistle weighed his options as he slowly lowered his hand. It seemed as though they could pass through here unaffected, which should be a good thing. Perhaps the priest had come this way and already tripped whatever trap had lain in wait. But there were no scratches, scorch marks, blood, or corpses to attest to any sort of fight. It didn’t add up, and a tickle in Thistle’s brain demanded he try and make sense of this. Perhaps it was worth a few minutes to examine the one clue they had to work with: the altar.

  Thistle approached it just as Grumph stepped past the threshold, and this time, he was certain he saw a flicker run across its white stone surface. Again, though, that was all that came. Thistle couldn’t imagine someone had constructed this labyrinth sealed behind a door and hidden in a mountain all to make one of the traps be a very brief light show. It was possible that time had weakened whatever was set up, but given how well the rest of the area had been preserved, Thistle rated that as low in probability.

  Stepping all the way up the altar, and only realizing as he got within touching distance that perhaps the flicker had been the lure to draw him in and he was about the spring the trap on himself, Thistle pushed ahead and leaned down, examining the markings carved expertly in the stone surface. Most of it appeared to be either runes or a language so long forgotten it might as well be gibberish to him, but one symbol stuck out. Carefully crafted at it was, the drawing held a cursory association with one he recognized. Given the age of the piece, though, that was unlikely to be a fault of the artist. After all, symbols, like language, changed and evolved over time—even a symbol of something as simple as a broom strapped to a dagger.

  “Well, this explains a bit.” Thistle leaned away from the altar and looked over at Grumph, who was staring at him, patiently waiting for something resembling an explanation. “I could be wrong, of course, but I feel fairly certain that this is an altar to Grumble.”

  “Here?” It was hard to discern the tone of doubt in the half-orc’s rough voice, but Thistle picked it up easily as he noted the skeptical expression on Grumph’s face.

  “Yes, here. In fact, I think this room is very likely trapped or warded to the high heavens, but you and I didn’t set it off because of what we are.” Thistle moved away from the altar, brain buzzing as it incorporated this new information into what he already knew. Deep within the depths of his mind, a picture was beginning to take shape. He hadn’t bothered noting it before, but this vault was incredibly well made, as if it had been done by those with ample experience building such places.

  “A paladin and a wizard?”

  �
�No: a gnome and a half-orc who have both spent their time under the boot heels of others. At one point or another in our lives, we have both served as minions.” Thistle jerked a thumb back to the altar, which sat quietly, summoning no terrible guardians or calling down ancient curses. “This is only conjecture, but I think this room is meant to be a screen, not a wall. Only certain people are supposed to get through.”

  Grumph didn’t bother asking out loud for an explanation. He simply raised a bushy eyebrow and waited for Thistle to get to the point.

  “I am beginning to think that the people who turned our mystery man into a skull, and the people who sealed whatever lays inside here are not one and the same,” Thistle said. “This place was never meant to be opened. It isn’t a treasure chest waiting to be uncovered; it’s a tomb.”

  “For whom?”

  “That is the question, isn’t it, old friend.” With a quick step, he headed toward the exit door, Grumph quickly following pace. Thistle hadn’t thought it possible to be more motivated to hurry than when chasing a priest of Kalzidar seeking unknown magical items, but it turned out there was one thing that could put more spring in his step than even that dire situation.

  The one thing that could move Thistle like nothing else was answers.

  * * *

  “Fuck me.” Gabrielle stared across the chasm—a hundred feet long if it was an inch—and the slender stone bridge that ran its length. Navigating such an obstacle would have been tough enough when considering the glinting spears at the bottom of the drop waiting to be soaked in blood. But the swinging blades suspended on chains slicing across the bridge at irregular heights and intervals made it functionally impossible.

  “Now would be a really good time for more wall-climbing magic,” Fritz said.

  “Actually, not sure that would help.” Eric pointed over to the walls separated by the yawning pit and dancing blades, drawing the elven trader’s attention to the dozens of small, razor-like bits of metal jutting out from the stone surface.