The Gate to Thomerion

by Daniel Heck

  Titania whispers to you, “Maybe it would be best if we spoke to the envoy in a more private setting…”

  You grumble back, “And how will we accomplish that?"

  Galumnuk raises his hand. The diplomats concede the floor.

  “What you know about a mystical gate?”

  The committee members exchange confused glances. One particularly ancient orcblood makes a half-hearted joke about the gate to his sheep pasture, and how it creaks so loudly in the wind that the sheep never sleep.

  You roll your eyes and cross your arms. Peace between nations, you want to shout, could soon be a moot point.

  Meanwhile, far away, in remote corners of Ambrosinia and even off the mainland, evil-minded spies and scouts seek out the physical means by which to open the gate in question. You’ve been running about from place to place for such a span now that their escorting Thomerion and his cadre of destructive minions into the mortal realm has become inevitable. As it appears these negotiations could stretch on forever, wouldn’t it be worth a little aggravation or even a little time in prison if it meant saving the world?

  Go back to the previous choice, or start again.

  After scanning to make sure no one’s watching, you duck into the offshoot, then slowly pull out the teleportation cube Galumnuk gave you. As time passes, the other wizards file out of sight, evidently having forgotten you.

  “If we both hold this,” you state, “I surmise that we can both go to the other side of this door.”

  But upon your concentrating, it does nothing but glow. You focus some more, trying to ‘tell’ it what to do, and after a minute, two of its six sides start to glow more brightly than the other four. One glows with a yellow light. The opposite side glows red.

  You notice that either can be pressed into the device’s core.

  Which button do you push?

  I activate the yellow side.

  I activate the red side.

  You pause to ponder the circumstances, but soon remind yourself that the world is counting on you to keep the idol out of the wrong hands.

  “Let’s keep moving,” you decide.

  Titania does so, even as she glances over her shoulder with a look of concern. “Are you sure they’ll be okay?” Titania asks.

  “No,” you admit, “but even when blessed with talents and abilities as we have been, sometimes, it’s best to put others’ fates in the hands of the universe.”

  The sounds of battle escalate at first, then fade, as you put more and more distance between yourselves and the encampment. Finally, you reach temperate land once more.

  If you have both halves of the idol, proceed with your plans.

  If you still need the other half of the idol, prepare to visit the frozen isles.

  The sun drops further and further within the sky as you rehearse, and you feel like taking a chance: despite how you feel slow on the uptake, and Titania continually reminds you that the verbal reaction is more important than the physical, you eventually agree that you’ll execute the punch lines, while she will set up the jokes.

  “I’ve gotta make sure you’re listenin’ to me, ya see…” she says, “Who’s on first watch.”

  “Yes,” you reply.

  Titania smacks your chest with an open palm. “Quit being silly! Say what we decided to say in the first place.”

  “I’m trying…”

  The contest will be held in a private tavern chamber near the Whitetail River, so you decide to trek in that direction a little early, and find that only about half the seats are occupied. Some attendees stand or lean against random barrels, and most engage in idle chat, while families of all races, including tiny children, slowly file in through the doors. You register with an emcee, and realize that your act has no name, so you just tell them to write down “B.L.T.”

  Your love glares at you. “We sound like a sandwich.”

  You shrug. “I thought the ‘L’ could stand for ‘loves.’ You can fill in the rest.”

  She squeezes your hand, smirks and pecks you on the cheek, just before you sit.

  Despite their status as your competitors, the first few acts--first an elven mime trio, followed by an adorable young political impressionist--make you laugh so hard your sides hurt.

  We’ll need to be on top of our game, you reflect, your chest heavy.

  Then, the coordinator announces your act. You and Titania bound on stage, nervous energy spilling from your every pore.

  The audience laughs mildly at your first few deliveries, and at first seems to be ‘getting it.’ But soon, you find yourself rushing, and at times speak over your scene partner, only to awkwardly apologize and restart. Over time you completely lose the routine’s intended rhythm, and have also lost the audience’s interest. They applaud politely once you have finished, but by then it couldn’t be clearer that your performance was inferior.

  They wouldn’t know a joke if it bit them in the butt…

  “Frankly,” you assert, “I’ve had enough of you.”

  Mudd’s jaw drops even lower than it did the first time. You file into the meeting room but remain standing. The moment the envoy—a portly human woman whom others reverently clear space for—enters, you step in front of her, and blurt, “Madam, we need your help. I speak of a matter of national security and safety.”

  A pair of bodyguards flanking the envoy swiftly draw daggers, their muscles pulsing. She, however, extends a hand in supplication. “Hold your action…”

  The envoy scans you up and down, at first arching an eyebrow in suspicion, but her demeanor soon softens. She touches the edge of your vestments, then grips your hand in hers, and asks, “First, what is your name, young cleric?”

  The words spill out almost too fast for you to pronounce. “My name is Bartleby, servant of the church of the sun.”

  “What is on your mind, Bartleby?” The kindness in her tone is almost too much for your heart to bear. A tear of relief wells within your eye.

  Titania and Galumnuk exchange glances, then look back at you.

  “Madam, you are aware of the Arcanites, correct? A secret society of wizards.”

  She nods, listening.

  “We understand that they have something to do with a gate. A gate that could allow Thomerion himself to enter this realm.”

  A moment of silence passes. Then, of all things, the envoy giggles weakly. Then, strongly. The laughter spreads among others in the room, until the three of you are the only ones not practically rolling on the floor.

  You frown so hard that the muscles in your forehead cramp.

  Recovering her composure, the envoy pats your chest playfully and says, “No one is capable of such things. The Arcanites may stir trouble for other, more worldly reasons, but the peace treaty will be negotiated today primarily because our neighboring nations are sick of seeing our peoples suffer. Trade will soon resume at full volume, travelers will have an easier go of crossing the border. Are these things not important to you, too?”

  Reeling, you stammer, “Well, yes, I…”

  “Good,” she interrupts. “Then, if you have said your peace, you should leave.”

  You stomp your foot like a small child. “Do not dismiss me!”

  Titania lays a hand on your arm, and placates, “You heard what she said. We need to find some other plan of action.”

  The envoy has already turned away and is in the process of taking her seat, when you forcefully grab both of her shoulders in an attempt to whirl her about. This time, however, the bodyguards spring into action; one punches you in the gut and air painfully whooshes out of your lungs. The other throws you over his shoulder like a limp sack of potatoes.

  “Put him in a holding cell,” Mudd orders as the orcbloods carry you away. Too stunned to struggle, you look up just long enough to see a smug smirk cross the duke’s face as you pass. “Now, where were we?”

  Go back to the previous choice, or start again.

  Feeling your lover’s touch on your knuckles as you grip
the tiny cube, you feel called toward pressing the red side, and think of it as a symbol of your inner fire—the drive toward solving quandaries like Thomerion’s gate.

  As let that flame build within, you slowly cock your thumb below the bottom edge, then depress the red button.

  Click.

  With your next breath, your throat cracks and your lungs fill with heat. Scathing wind burns your cheeks. You look about. You are nowhere near where you started; ahead of you sprawl leagues upon leagues of parched maroon soil. Nary a tree grows here; instead a black mountain range looms long and deep. Squinting to protect your eyes from sand and dust, you spot a small river of lava, within which slender red-skinned creatures with horns and claws bathe, as if enjoying a relaxing natural spring.

  Imps… That confounded thing transported me to the demon realm!

  On top of it all, Titania is nowhere to be found. Temptation to call out rises within, but so does concern that you would be noticed and torn apart, eaten or burned alive.

  As fear and confusion grow, quickening your pulse and your breathing, you glance down at the cube you hold. The two sides that appeared so special before now no longer glow. The item appears as nothing more than a trinket. You push the buttons on both sides, and even try to channel energy into it—to “wake it up?”—but nothing happens.

  It appears you have no way out. Rather than cry or bemoan your situation, you sit on a boulder, curl your knees into your chin and pray to your sun deity, both for the strength to survive here as long as possible, and so that someone back home can figure out a way to get you back.

  Go back to the previous choice, or start again.

  You scowl at your lover.

  “While I don’t discount your concerns, if the temple’s archives contained anything on the topic, I’m sure I would have seen it long ago.”

  You puff out your chest and turn on your heel, only to feel a hand on your arm.

  “Now, wait just a minute!”

  You glance over your shoulder.

  “I think you do discount my concerns, whether you mean to or not. And lest you forget, we speak of the god whose servants threatened to conquer Ambrosinia itself.”

  She is right. You purse your lips, but hang your head and turn toward her.

  She coos, “And part of my concern was, after all, to see you.”

  You pause.

  “My apologies.”

  Titania strokes your cheek, and smirks. “I forgive you. You now know what I want, but I’m willing to bargain,” she says playfully as she crosses her arms. “What can you give or do for me if we consult Katalina?”

  This comes at you out of nowhere, but it’s not like you don’t know her. You glance at a necklace she wears; it’s of peridot, but she’d been asking for something a little more valuable. On the other hand, one of the best ways in which you’ve been taught to love others is via shared experiences.

  What do you offer?

  I pledge to buy her the sapphire ring I saw when we were last at the jeweler’s shop.

  I promise to take her to the upcoming Springtime Festival.

  “You make a good point,” you tell Titania, “and, I was taught since I was very young to be true to my word. Even to the bitter end.”

  You guide her around several street corners, eventually backtracking once, then twice, having not really paid much attention as to how you reached the alley in the first place. Titania pulls you aside and teases, “Do you expect the imp to just mysteriously find us, and go ‘pssst’ to get our attention again?”

  “Pssst…”

  You jump nearly out of your vestments, and glance about. There he is, in the same crate within a similarly long shadow.

  You close the distance, squint and cross your arms. You say to it as the imp as it peeks out from its hiding place, “Have you been there this entire time? How do you eat, or even survive?”

  “I have my ways,” it replies.

  Titania arches an eyebrow.

  “Do you have the idol?”

  You pause before reporting your progress. Upon hearing it, the creature leaps forward in excitement, its mitts scrabbling wildly toward you. “Give it to me! Give it to me!” he shrieks.

  “Not so fast,” you warn, “Tell us what this is all about first.”

  “I will do better than that. I will show you,” it counters, breathing hard, “if… you hand both parts to me.”

  You sigh, your spirit heavy.

  My instinct and my heart, warring with one another over what is best…

  You remove your pack, retrieve the idol and gingerly hand it over. The imp instantly throws its head back, and cackles madly.

  “Fools!”

  With an audible heave, it conjoins the two parts and forcibly twists them so that they lock hard in the middle. “Malevola!” it shouts, as if reciting a magical keyword.

  A dot of purple, sparking energy appears at about waist-level next to you, and within seconds expands into a circle, until you can clearly see into another dimension beyond it. Within, a black-robed skeleton with a dagger piercing its skull at a forty-five-degree angle approaches the portal from the other side. Your pulse quickens and fear floods you, yet you stand paralyzed, strangely enraptured by the most evil sight conceivable to mankind.

  Thomerion himself!

  “Close this!” Titania shouts. “Now!”

  The imp only cackles more. It was under the employ of its demonic master the entire time.

  With little to do to help the situation, you regain control of your muscles and bolt through the streets in panic. Over your shoulder, you see the god of destruction, eight feet tall in its ghastly mortal incarnation, traipse casually through the portal and into the alley, setting alight everything it touches. Children and mothers in the streets scream at the top of their lungs, fleeing the chaos as hundreds of smaller demon henchmen pour forth behind Thomerion, tearing living beings and non-living objects alike apart with their bare claws.

  As word spreads, the nation’s most powerful magicians and militiamen unite to fight, but their efforts have little effect; their spear points warp and their concentrations wane when anyone comes within yards of the growing threat. Hiding within the woods for as long as possible, you lose your faith in your sun god completely, for if there were ever an opportunity for divine intervention, this would be it. Within three days, the capital is utterly obliterated. Warehouses, stables and entire castles alike are torn to the ground, and charred bodies send methane and an awful stench into every inch of the atmosphere. Soon thereafter, the entirety of Ambrosinia burns, never again to support mortal life or a single semblance of good intention.

  Write down the keyword TRICK.

  Go back to the previous choice, or start again.

  As it would be too risky to continue, you sever the mental link between yourself and the great beyond. Slowly, your breathing and pulse return to their normal paces, and you open your eyes knowing that you achieved all that you could have.

  You shared what you saw with Titania, then hear an urgent, hard knock on the door. You arch an eyebrow even as you stand and open it. On the other side stands Duke Mudd.

  “I thought I’d find you here,” he grumbles.

  You frown. “Why do you disturb me within my own home? This is unusual, even considering your authority.”

  “You are again summoned to negotiative duty, this time nearby the City of Storms. As it turns out, I released you too early.”

  You and Titania exchange glances.

  Mudd’s tone remains even. “Did you… attend to that other matter?”

  You stand tall, and nod. “My liege, do you know anything about a portal, or gate? Involving Thomerion?”

  “Thomerion? Who is he or she, or what is it?”

  This takes you aback. A pause ensues.

  Titania asks, “You sincerely do not know? Thomerion is the god of destruction, a thoroughly evil being encased within the demon realm for nearly destroying the universe near the beginnings of time.”<
br />
  Mudd shakes his head. “I am a lifelong atheist.”

  At your shocked reaction, he continues, “Why would someone with that point of view appoint a priest as a mediator, when plenty of secular options exist, you may ask? Because, Bartleby… your reputation as a complete and stable person, a compassionate and caring soul, independent of anything else, entirely preceded you.”

  He does not smile, but clears his throat, and looks aside.

  That’s the closest thing to a compliment you’ve given me in all these years of service…

  “Now, come…”

  Titania interjects, “Wait,” and pulls you aside. Her glare at you says it all.

  You glance between the two, but soon assert, “My liege, the note turned out to be a matter of great personal importance. I shall return to my duties, but only under one condition.”

  Mudd folds his hands behind his back and grumbles, “Which is?”

  “If you please, send troops to investigate treasure hoards throughout the kingdom.”

  You explain that your godfather had been having visions, and subsequently disappeared as a result of your dallying. While Mudd expresses regrets at holding you back, he also laughs at your hope of committing entire armies to encounter possible dragons.

  “It would be…” he muses, “an ‘all for one’ type of excursion. Who commits that kind of egregious waste nowadays?”

  Titania frowns. You cross your arms.

  “On the other hand,” Mudd continues, “this is a perfect opportunity for our newly trained spies. I shall send one to each of the four caverns of which my superiors are aware. If a spy finds your godfather”—here, Mudd adopts a sneaky, dark tone—"he or she shall traverse the shadows and bring him back to town, without so much as being seen or heard!”