Homebrew

by Xavier P. Hunter

  “What’s the next highest thing beneath the sky?” Sira asked quickly.

  Zeeto shrugged. “Birds?”

  “Trees,” Braeleigh said.

  “Nay, thee both,” Beldrak said. “The tallest mountains stretch higher than any bird dare soar, with peaks that no tree may grow upon.”

  Zeeto shook his head. “Nah. Clouds go higher. Besides, mountains are gray, not white.”

  Sira snapped her fingers. “Snow cap. Or clouds. Either way, they’re above a mountain, which is gray.”

  “Well, we have a mountain picture,” Braeleigh said. “But what’s sky or cloud?”

  Sira shook her head. “Not five things. One.”

  This was getting good. One tiny clue, dropped without them realizing he’d left it, and Gary had set them rolling down the path. It wasn’t that he doubted they’d have figured it out eventually, but there was still the matter of a limited food supply.

  He didn’t want to be down in Gelzhearth long enough to starve.

  “If the mountain is gray, what are the other four, then?” Zeeto asked.

  “Hear me out,” Sira said. She held out a hand at eye level and stepped it down one line at a time. “Sky, snow, rock, cavern, magma.”

  Beldrak’s eyes lit. “’Tis a picture of a mountain, top to bottom, outside to in. I wager my own flesh against this vault that thy verdict strikes the mark.”

  The paladin strode over and pressed his finger to the carved likeness of a mountain. With a rumbling, the vault door swung open.

  Zeeto squeezed his eyes shut and crossed his fingers. “Dagger… dagger… dagger…”

  Gary peered inside, ducking beneath Beldrak’s head and above the crouching Braeleigh’s.

  “It’s a dagger!” Braeleigh squealed.

  Zeeto’s eyes shot wide. “Really?”

  “Nope,” Braeleigh replied with smirk.

  Inside the vault was a crossbow sized for dwarven arms—lightweight by human standards but not because its makers were weaklings. It was carved of wood and adorned with brass. It was fashioned of the highest quality craftsdwarfship. Perhaps not coincidentally, the bowstring was made of nickel, just like a guitar string.

  “Oh, screw you, universe,” Zeeto yelled at the ceiling. He looked around as if searching for a vent for his rage. Then his gaze settled on the fountain. “I am so going to take a leak in that holy water.”

  The halfling didn’t make it three steps before Beldrak hoisted him by the back of his shirt. “Calm thy bile, small one. Remember that there be two vaults yet to salve thy avarice.”

  “Two tosses of a crooked set of dice,” Zeeto muttered. “What’s that worth?” He cast the fountain a dirty look and wagged a finger at it. “If I don’t get something worth by while, you know what’s coming.”

  The crossbow wasn’t entirely alone within the vault. A small strongbox yielded easily to Zeeto’s ministrations with the pick and wire, revealing a cache of 200 gold coins and a pair of sapphires. Zeeto held onto the gems until they could pawn them, then they split the rest.

  Acquired 40 gold

  “Leigh, you’re probably best with the crossbow,” Sira said, holding it out to the elven ranger.

  Braeleigh gave the weapon a look as if it were covered in snot. In the real world, Katie had been like that before Caspian. Since his birth, Gary had seen her zip up a soiled diaper in a baggie and stuff it in her purse for lack of a place to dispose of it. This avatar of hers hearkened back to the days when a fork that fell onto the floor went straight for the dishwasher, not a quick wipe on the hem of her shirt.

  “It was made by dwarves, not demons,” Zeeto said testily.

  Still leaning away from the weapon, Braeleigh waggled a finger in Gary’s direction. “Give it to him. Maybe he’ll be better off not getting near monsters.”

  Acquired Hair-Splitter: 1d8+1 (sharp) critical range 19-20

  “Uh, thanks,” Gary said, wishing that he’d acquired it because they thought it would be of best use in his hands, not because the dwarfophobic elf thought it was diseased and no one had confidence in his skills with a blade. “Anyone seen any quarrels?”

  “I’ve heard plenty,” Sira said dryly. “But no.”

  With a sigh, Gary slung yet another useless implement over his shoulder, joining the lute he sucked at playing.

  Zeeto clapped his hands sharply. “Let’s get our translator in gear. Chop, chop. Loot’s not going to deliver itself.”

  Once again, Gary was able to guide them to the next vault and choose between the remaining two.

  He translated the inscription.

  ONE TO HELP US BEAR OUR WOUNDS

  ONE TO STEEL US ‘GAINST OUR FEARS

  ONE TO BLESS OUR HOLY FEASTS

  ONE TO DRY OUR GRIEVING TEARS

  Zeeto was shifting his weight from foot to foot before Gary even finished with the chalk. “I know! I know! This one has to be booze!” He jumped up and pressed the foaming mug of ale before anyone could think to stop him.

  And why would they? This was the easiest of the puzzles.

  The grinding stonework swung wide to reveal an armory of dwarven mail, but in among the dwarf-sized mannequins bedecked in steel was a two-hooked rack supporting a black metal greatsword of questionable quality.

  Beldrak shouldered the stone door open wider and strode inside. Ignoring the armor, he took up the sword and held it close to his eyes for better examination. “At morning glance, this blade seems not the work of dwarven hand. But upon the second look, it hath never felt the kiss of forge’s fire.”

  Sira didn’t look convinced. “I’m no blacksmith, but isn’t fire sort of essential to the process?”

  “Nay,” Beldrak replied. “But only in the hands of a master can iron be wrought without flame. ’Tis said that the denizens of the netherworld fear no blade of the forge. Gary, pray thee, this blade doth have a name writ in dwarven runes below.”

  Gary gave the name placard a cursory glance. He’d have needed binoculars to make it out without pushing past the paladin for closer examination. Fortunately, he remembered the name well enough without any reminder. “It’s the Shard of Pellar.”

  “A favored name for a blade a mighty smith hath wrought from Pellar’s bones.”

  Zeeto huffed. “One shot left. Can we check out the last vault? And I call dibs. Dibs for Zeeto on whatever’s inside. I don’t care if it’s a lead helmet of a codpiece sized for an ogre. Whatever we get from it, I’m keeping and I’m wearing.”

  “I hope it’s a frilly pink dress,” Braeleigh suggested. “Or maybe one of those sparkly masks on a stick that fancy ladies wear at costume balls.”

  “Odds of anything like that in a dwarven crypt?” Sira said, then held up a hand with her fingers making a circle. “Zero.”

  Beldrak clapped a hand on Gary’s shoulder. The paladin had already replaced the sword at his hip with the one from the vault, and he’d left his old sword in its place. “Let us away and staunch the seeping flow of Master Zeeto’s loins. The last vault awaits but thy translation.”

  Giving a solemn nod, Gary set to work. While he didn’t generally want it known that he’d created this whole world for them, to this point he hadn’t needed to fear their response should they find out. It would have merely been a point of dispute as to how Gary ought best to use his unique knowledge.

  But if they discovered he was behind this puzzle, they might kill him.

  FIVE BEFORE AND THREE BENEATH

  DARKNESS WHERE THE AIR HAS TEETH

  FIRE CAGED WITHIN A SHEATH

  STONES UNTO MY KIN BEQUEATH

  They watched expectantly as Gary worked. He kept checking their reactions over his shoulder. Keen eyes fixated on each chalked word upon the marble until he’d finished.

  “Huh?” Sira said. “Can you double-check that gibberish? I think you must have mistranslated something here.”

  Gary made a show of reviewing his translation. “Nope. That’s what it says.”

  “OK,” Zeeto said. “W
hat if we go out and kill a bunch of those lizardlings in the city. Maybe we advance down the Path of Power a little, maybe one or two of you take a zap to give us some extra guesses.”

  “We shouldn’t spend too long on this,” Braeleigh said. “We’ve already gotten most of what’s in here, and there’s only so much food to be had. Plus, I think Caspian would really like to see some trees.”

  “Not leaving without getting my fair share,” Zeeto insisted.

  “Then press buttons at random until you fry or open it,” Sira replied. “By Sevius’s grace, I’ll keep you alive as best I can.”

  The great puzzle debate began.

  “…that second line has to be a bat. Teeth in the air in the dark.”

  “…a sheath of fire hast the semblance of a hearth, would it not?”

  “…not to be, like, dwarfist, but do they really bequeath stones? Like, ‘oh, Brugar, my beloved nephew, to you I leave this rock I found in mine shaft three that looks like a dancing pig.’”

  It went on that way for over two hours. None of the answers fit closely enough to the puzzle that anyone was willing to take a guess. It wasn’t that they didn’t have some halfway decent ideas; it was that the first line utterly baffled them. Even if they thought that multiple answers were the key, without the first in the sequence, they were at an impasse.

  “Has anyone else noticed that Gary is pretty frickin’ useless here?” Zeeto asked testily.

  Gary had been playing the theme song to Jeopardy for the past half hour, trying to either help them think, spur memories of their real-world lives, or just rankle his friends.

  Gary opened his pack, placing a finger to his lips lest the dead wizard riding inside remind the superstitious adventurers of his presence. He found the bit-and-brace with the firmium tip and tossed it at the halfling’s feet.

  “Want my advice?” Gary asked. “There it is.”

  Sira rolled her eyes. “For a bard, you’re pretty stupid when it comes to old stories. No quest culminates in the fourth of four puzzles being overcome by brute force. This one will be all the more rewarding for being harder to solve.”

  “It’ll only be rewarding if you get inside,” Gary said. “Think how long it will take to drill through, squeeze a grappling hook inside and haul that door open. Then compare that to how long this committee meeting might last. Then check both of those against our food supply.”

  “He’s probably right, you know,” Braeleigh said. She took Caspian’s face in both hands and ruffled his fur. She spoke to the wolf pup in baby talk. “After all, it’s just a silly old dwarf door. Isn’t it, little guy?”

  “’Twould be disrespectful of the craftsman’s intent,” Beldrak said, and the debate began anew.

  Half an hour later, the paladin’s reserve of calm had dried up. “Drat thee, stone riddle. Fie and begone. Hand me yonder implement of destruction, and let me have at.”

  “Still a little sacrilegious,” Sira said. “I only approve of any of this because we’ve been passing tests of worthiness set down by the builders of this place. With each test, we prove our understanding and reverence for dwarven culture.”

  Gary couldn’t guess at the time that passed before Sira exploded. “I can’t take it anymore. Screw these dead dwarfs and their schizophrenic word vomit riddles!” She marched over and picked up the bit-and-brace.

  Zeeto intercepted her. “I think I’m onto something. Count the letters in each line. 25, 27, 22, 23.”

  Sira’s boil reduced to a simmer. “What’s that all mean?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Zeeto said. “But I bet if we break into that vault, something awful’s going to happen to the treasure inside. And it’s my treasure.”

  Five minutes later, a frustrated Zeeto took up the bit-and-brace, and no one had a mind to stop him. Five more minutes and the indescribably sharp tip had bored through the stone door. After that, it was only a matter of time before they managed to stuff a rope through with a short crowbar tied at the middle. Once through the hole, the crowbar turned sideways and wouldn’t come back through.

  Beldrak hauled, and the door slowly slid open.

  Sira shook her head sadly. “Bugs me that we’ll never know what the answer was.”

  Gary walked up to the runes around the door and slapped a hand over several of them at once. Sira and Braeleigh gasped, but nothing happened. “I think this one was broken.”

  20

  Inside the fourth vault was a scene that none but Gary was prepared for. Unlike the treasures of the prior three, this fourth stone structure was a mausoleum.

  Lying beneath a coffer lid of glass was an elf woman, lying on her side with one hand outstretched. No sign of limpness or decay showed in her features. That reaching arm had neither string nor cradle to support it.

  “Uh, I revise my previous statement,” Zeeto said. “No way I’m carrying this thing out of here.”

  “She’s not a thing,” Braeleigh insisted. “And she’s pretty. Her eyes are open. You can almost imagine that she can see us in here, staring at her like a public statue. It’s rude.”

  Gary read aloud from the marker placed below the glass case. “Here lies Miriasa Starlight. She is our lesson about the danger of the Gem of Eternity and forevermore guest of the people of Gelzhearth.”

  “Gem of Eternity, huh?” Zeeto asked, sauntering around the far side of the case. “Think that’s what’s in here?” He popped open a stone coffer on the low table set behind the bier. The vault was bathed a pale radiance briefly, but it quickly faded.

  “Whatever’s in there, do not touch it!” Sira ordered.

  “Geez!” Zeeto said, holding up his hands. “Give a guy a little credit for self-preservation. But have a look-see.”

  Inside the coffer was a diamond the side of a turkey egg. Though it wasn’t emitting the same light as had briefly shone upon the coffer’s opening, it still carried a warm glow within.

  “It’s mine,” Zeeto informed everyone as they gaped over his shoulder. “Elf’s party treasure. Probably get good coin off a museum for her.”

  “We most certainly will not sell her,” Braeleigh insisted. “We need to help her.” Caspian barked once, seemingly in support of his master’s indignation.

  “How are we supposed to help her?” Sira asked, folding her arms. “Not that I’m opposed, mind you. But tell me, how can this whole city of dwarves not know a thing about how to help her—and they went to the trouble of building her a glass tomb, so it’s not like they ignored the problem—and we’re supposed to figure it out ourselves?”

  “They’re dwarves,” Braeleigh said with a shrug. “I’m guessing building a big fancy stone wood shed and glazing a coffin was a lot easier than reading books of lore or consulting with an actual expert on magic.”

  “The arcane arts be fraught with demon wiles and temptations vexing to even the most stalwart heart. The orcs of yore fell prey to those irksome, poisoned fruits,” Beldrak said. “Let us not tread the trail of footsteps past the cliff’s edge.”

  Zeeto giggled. “Orc-some fruits.”

  “Are you listening?” Sira said, looking from Braeleigh to Zeeto and back. “Dangerous gem. Probably froze this elf. Don’t go looking for wizards’ help to undo this.”

  Braeleigh crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. “Wizards aren’t bad any more than priests or warriors. Elves have a long, proud history with magic, and we didn’t poo our britches every time one of them went bad.”

  “We’re not taking her,” Sira said.

  “We can’t leave her,” Braeleigh argued.

  Sira seethed. “We physically can’t get her out of this tomb city! We’re going to have to fight or sneak or come up with some crazy plan to get out of this place, and our odds drop like stones off a pier if we try to lug a frozen elf along.”

  “But a wisp of flesh and cloth,” Beldrak said softly. “It would be little burden to bear her.”

  “You’re our best weapon in a fight,” Sira countered.

  Beldr
ak shook his head. “Our weapons be not steel and wood. We fight with this.” He tapped Sira in the center of her chest. “And this.” He tapped his own ribcage just above his heart. He gestured to Braeleigh and Zeeto and even Gary. “And thine as well. The moral right throws its weight behind our sword arms.”

  Braeleigh helped Beldrak gently lift and set aside the five-sided glass crate that covered Miriasa Starlight like a serving platter. When Beldrak picked up the rigid elf, there wasn’t the faintest sign of motion. Not a hair on her head so much as budged relative to the rest of her. Not a fold of her pale blue dress rustled. The eyes, fixed it seemed upon the object she reached for, kept their catatonic stare.

  Gary was impressed. The moral fiber of this party was more than his friends could usually muster. He’d half expected they might concoct some half-baked plan to return later and retrieve her. It was the flotsam of campaigns past that such revisitings accumulated without any resolution. Most were forgotten until the campaign was at an end and Gary shared his notes.

  Clearing his throat, Gary found it his duty to point out the obvious and speed things along. “We’re in a dead end—literally, in fact. There are tombs concealed behind all these mural carvings. But the only way out is back through the city.”

  “And all that gets us is a bunch of lizardlings,” Zeeto added. “Anyone get a count while we were running? Maybe we can pick ‘em off a few at a time. If they won’t come down here, maybe hit and run can win out over the long haul.”

  Sira was still scowling at the frozen elf, slung like a plank over the paladin’s shoulder. “I didn’t take a census. Must have been at least thirty chasing us. Plenty more where they came from too. That city was huge, and there were lights in upper story windows all over.”

  Braeleigh held up a finger. “Guys? Maybe this isn’t the right time, but… hasn’t anyone else noticed a little pent up feeling? Like maybe a rest and some contemplation might advance us down the Paths of Power?”

  Dammit! She was right.

  Gary checked, and he’d gone over as well.