The Seal of Thomerion

by Daniel Heck

  What do you do?

  I can afford to help find the elf.

  I continue on with only Bartleby.

  “Sir,” you implore, “Where can I find the hall?”

  Natar smiles. “You can find an agent of the city watch within a multi-level treehouse four paths to the south. He will tell you more.”

  “Thank you,” you say, bowing in gratitude.

  “Wait ‘til Helmina finds out someone listened to me for once,” he says. Natar turns back to his fields and, with a smirk, you wonder for a moment just where he’ll sleep tonight.

  Finding city hall requires less than five minutes, and you couldn’t have missed it if you tried. Made of the finest cherry wood, sanded and polished to a shining finish, it puts every other building you’ve seen thus far to shame. Stately ivy crawls up the sides, and an approach path, lined with stones, welcomes you.

  You climb the provided rope ladder, and ring a bell just outside the main door. An instant later, a short elf in a black tunic bolts out of the door, past the two of you and almost over the railing. “Goodness!” he chirps as he replaces his spectacles, “We don’t get out-of-towners much around here.”

  You adopt a humble tone, “We are sorry to alarm you, but…”

  “Alarm me?” the clerk interrupts, “By the gods, you’ve rescued me from the verge of tears, I’ve been so bored. So, please, enter!”

  He leads you to a set of stools within the compound, sits behind a large desk, and faces you.

  “Now,” says the clerk, “How may I help you?”

  “We seek the assistance of one Demetrius Argent,” you say.

  “We have been told he is capable of miracles,” Bartleby adds.

  The clerk scratches his head, and replies, “He is quite intelligent. But then again, would it have killed him to show up for our meeting?”

  “He was already supposed to have arrived?”

  “When the sun was at its highest point.”

  “Perhaps,” you theorize, “we are too late.”

  “What do you mean?”

  You relate that Argent might be in danger, and also that you left a spy behind, one with a concrete connection to an army of Thomerion.

  “I would wager,” the clerk offers, “that these two facts are connected in some way. In fact,” and with this he pounds his fist on the desk and stands straight as a pole, “this warrants immediate action.”

  “Wait, please,” you blurt, “I have not explained…”

  “I shall deploy a task force to find Demetrius, and take him into protective custody.”

  “But, we need…”

  The clerk keeps speaking, each sentence quicker and higher-pitched than the next, and his hands flail about in wild circles.

  “If we have enough men involved, this will all boil over in due time. But where to keep him? The prison won’t do. Ah! There’s a perfect chamber for him in the back of this hall.”

  You and Bartleby exchange dubious glances.

  “Oh, and since the two of you are now classified as informants, we’ll need to do the same for you, as well.”

  You stand. “Now, wait just a minute…”

  “No buts about it, my friends. What you’ve described, the City of Storms considers a dire emergency.” The clerk puffs out his chest.

  Bartleby asks, “And, if we were to refuse protective custody?”

  “You would be in violation of local codes, and then, oh, then we would be able to make use of the jail.” The clerk nods with fervor.

  You grumble to yourself. Bartleby emits a defeated whoosh.

  The chamber the clerk locks you in offers comparative luxuries, but the irony of the situation still frustrates you to your core. You could break out, but your status as a labeled fugitive would not help your quest. During the first day or two, you take some solace in that, should the city’s overzealous personnel actually find Argent, he will come to you rather than the other way around.

  He never does.

  Better opportunities await you. Try again!

  Go back to the previous choice, or…

  Restart from the beginning.

  When a woman speaks with conviction, your mother taught you long ago, you had better listen. You approach Helmina.

  “I always have to remind Natar that I know what I’m talking about,” she grunts, “and you won’t be sorry for listenin’. The friend’s name’s Sonoth, and you can find him two lanes east of here. He raises pigs, so there’s no mistaking his property. Phew!”

  You thank her, and she returns to sweeping the walkway.

  You find Sonoth’s house within minutes, and rap upon the door while holding your nose. A wizened elf emerges.

  “May I help you?”

  “Good day, sir,” you say, “We’re interested in meeting Demetrius Argent. Helmina told us he was going to stay here.”

  The man thinks for a moment. “Ah, yes,” he replies, “Demetrius sent me a message detailing some kind of vision. He mentioned something about a cursed goblet.”

  You arch an eyebrow, as a weight settles into your chest.

  “But, oddly enough,” Sonoth continues, “He hasn’t shown up yet.”

  “Is there any other way we might find him?” Bartleby asks.

  “I do know where he normally lives. Come, I’ll show you.”

  Bartleby places a comforting hand on Sonoth’s shoulder, and guides him across his yard and into the forest path. The old man points a gnarled finger toward the northwest.

  You spend much of the journey listening to Sonoth’s mutterings, and his relative lack of agility makes the going slower than you’d hoped. The sun hovers just over the tops of distant trees when you find a large boulder, which anchors a curtain of ivy. You push aside the ivy, and reveal a dark tunnel leading into the ground.

  You look at Sonoth. “Argent lives in here?”

  He shrugs, and shudders. “Don’t ask me why.”

  I investigate the tunnel.

  “I shall notify His Highness,” you tell the messenger, “but is there any chance that the army generals can hold their own for a while?”

  The boy nods in comprehension. “We shall see…” he says with fear in his eyes, and runs off. You turn toward your hut, but hesitate. You rehearse a little act within your mind for a moment, and enter.

  “Did I hear somebody outside?” Grindle asks.

  “Merely a merchant boy,” you lie, “trying to sell me something.”

  True to plan, your friend looks much better. “We are not out of the woods yet, so to speak,” Wyver cautions. “He is at the point of no return.”

  You remain silent, but feel warm, as shame flushes your cheeks. As time passes and the spell approaches completion, dreadful images flit through your mind, of innocent citizens suffering, houses burning, all as part of an invasion you knew was going to occur.

  It was only a matter of when, you remind yourself.

  Finally, Wyver retracts his hands, and lets their glow dissipate. Ever so slowly, Fedwick begins to stir. He tips his head to the side, opens his eyes, and mutters, “What happened?”

  Everyone cheers and applauds. You embrace your friend, and help him to sit up. As awkward as it feels, you then follow Wyver as he exits the hut. “Thank you,” you say.

  “I have done what I can,” he notes, “It is time for me to depart.”

  “You had best hasten,” you suggest.

  Wyver blinks. “Why?”

  “You would kill me if I told you. You will find out when you get there. Just, hurry.” The king nods, and rounds up his bodyguards. As he rides off, you watch with mixed emotions, wary of an uncertain future.

  You have revived Fedwick!

  But is there more to the story?

  Read through The Seal of Thomerion again to find out.

  You say, “I will watch first if you could use the respite.”

  Mikhail pauses, and glares at you. “I insist,” he replies.

  Bartleby arches an eyebrow, and looks toward the
setting sun.

  You note the strain in the elf’s voice. “Why is it so important?”

  “I could ask you the same.”

  Zander snaps, “Just when I think I’ve seen it all, now I’ve seen people argue over watch as if paid for it in whores by the wagonful. Well, there’s no such lasciviousness on this trip, gentlemen. Just the cold ground and the need to keep an eye on everyone. You take first shift,” he gestures toward you, “And Mikhail has second, for once.”

  The elf’s gaze continues boring holes in you. You shift your weight and look away, but it seems like forever before Mikhail puts his hood back over his head and slips away to help set up camp. Zander ties the horses to trees and starts a campfire, before retiring to his bedroll. Within moments, you hear mild snoring from all the others.

  You nibble on jerky and berries to keep your energy up, then examine and clean your axe as your mind wanders. Memories replay themselves: Fedwick pushing you aside just in time to avoid an ogre’s strike; Fedwick joining your siblings and parents at last year’s summer solstice feast. You struggle to keep from panicking, and realize for the first time that he is not just like family to you. He is family.

  At that moment, a rustling meets your ears from deep within the wood. Just as you dismiss the sound as that of nocturnal wildlife, you hear three knocks, which ring hollow as if on tree bark. You can’t see much of anything beyond the firelight very clearly.

  What do you do?

  I do nothing and hope whatever it is goes away.

  I investigate alone and let the party sleep.

  I wake the others.

  “A pair and a straight,” Saul says, “Just one point to go.” He turns over the four of spades, and places it in the last spot. The final grid looks like this:

  You have lost.

  I hang my head in defeat.

  You take a deep breath. Against your better judgment, you lower your offensive stance. Bartleby pockets the sun talisman clerics such as he often use as weaponry.

  “First,” you grunt, “who are you?”

  The youth smirks, and looks up.

  “I will not utter another word until you pledge.”

  Annoyance bubbles up in your chest, and comes out in your tone, “Fine. We will let you go once you have answered our questions. All of them.”

  “You will be held to your word.”

  You glance at Bartleby. He shrugs, then gestures as if to give in.

  “We will hold ourselves to our word,” you vow, “Now, who are you?”

  The youth smirks again, a creepy countenance if ever you’ve seen one, and stares back into space as he speaks. “My given name was Crolliver. I am of the fourth order of the servants of Thomerion, and as such no longer have an official name.”

  Bartleby says, “The lowest of the orders. You are treated as a lackey, I presume?”

  Crolliver purses his lips, but says nothing.

  You continue, “What are you doing here? What were you doing to the Impactium?”

  “The volume you saw on the altar has been modified with a magical trap. I was to remove the trap and return the book to my superiors.”

  “A trap? What was it intended to catch? Why the Impactium?”

  “If I tell you, they will kill me.”

  You clench a fist. “Damn you! I will kill you myself if you don’t talk!”

  Crolliver stares straight ahead, unafraid.

  Bartleby nudges you, and you shift to the side as he approaches to within inches of the youth.

  “Look at me,” Bartleby commands. The youth cooperates. His mouth twitches. Standing still, your companion whispers some foreign words, his pupils turn pale white, and he stares into the youth’s eyes. A few seconds pass, before Bartleby shakes his head and turns away.

  You glance back and forth between the two men. You place a hand on Bartleby’s shoulder, and ask, “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” he replies, blinking with force. “That spell reveals existing magical effects. He’s under some kind of mental surveillance, whereby…”

  Suddenly, Crolliver begins to choke and twitch. He gasps, sways, and struggles, hands at throat, his lungs drawing no oxygen. You and Bartleby reach forward in apprehension as the youth falls to his knees.

  “As…. I…. suspected,” he croaks, “The eyes of Thomerion… are… everywhere…”

  The youth collapses onto his back. You clench your fists and loom over him in panic, sensing your only investigative lead slipping into the void beyond. Bartleby puts a hand to the youth’s neck.

  “No pulse,” says the cleric. “He’s gone.”

  “By the gods,” you grumble, scanning the area, “If someone, somewhere, did that to him…”

  You both stand and wait, and barely breathe. Many moments pass.

  “And yet…”

  You turn to Bartleby, who finishes, “We have been spared. So far.”

  You scratch your beard, and slowly return to your rational norm. “It seems…” you grumble, “We have arrived back where we started.”

  The cleric shakes his head. “Not entirely.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When I searched this man for magic,” he says, with a gesture, “A faint vision came upon me. I yet ponder its significance, or even whether I am sure that I witnessed what I thought I witnessed. But, there it was. A rank of undead soldiers.”

  Your eyes widen. “Soldiers? Doing what?”

  “Filing, then marching. One carried a battle standard. Into it was sewn a swordfish upon a white circle, with a jagged spear through both.”

  “That symbol represents the militia of the tiny fisherman’s community of Sungaze, beyond the northwest border!”

  Bartleby scratches his chin. “That is odd, indeed.”

  You frown. “At this point, I do wish we had discovered something that could help Fedwick. At the same time, something is happening that is clearly bigger than any one dwarf.”

  “Should we, for now,” Bartleby ponders, indicating the door, “investigate where Crolliver was headed?”

  “Aha!” you grunt, feeling optimistic. But then, a second thought strikes you: If even the Impactium was a trap, who knows what dangers may lie underneath the warehouse?

  What do you do?

  I open the hatch.

  We travel to Sungaze.

  You didn’t come here to mess around. This person must not realize how much trouble he’s in, given the circumstances.

  You growl to him, “Do you think we’re dim? There are lives other than yours at stake here!”

  Bartleby lays a hand on your shoulder. “Calm yourself,” he says. Of the youth he asks, “Shall we get to the point? We seek someone with the power to undo a curse associated with the Church of Thomerion. If you have that power, you will help us. If you don’t, you will lead us to someone who does. The consequences of disobedience are dire.”

  Sunlight glints off of the cleric’s holy symbol as he palms it, prepared to release its destructive energies at a moment’s notice. The youth glares at Bartleby for a moment, then hangs his head in submission.

  “Perhaps this can be talked through,” he mutters.

  “The time for talk has long past,” you bellow. “You attacked us on sight!”

  Without turning, the cleric cautions, “Do try not to let your emotions get the better of you.”

  “Am I not allowed a word in edgewise?” you harrumph.

  “Just stay focused,” he replies.

  The youth glances one more time at each of you. “I cannot help you. But I know someone who can. With your permission, I shall lead the way.” As a precaution, you retrieve some thick rope from your pack and help Bartleby bind the youth’s hands. The youth frowns, but cooperates.

  As you head back toward the entrance, the creaking of the warehouse’s wooden panels hides your grumbles about your quest companion’s pedanticism, while you remind yourself that at least your skill with an axe will never fail to rank superior. The cleric does not even turn
about.

  You emerge into the sunlight, and interrogate the youth as you walk into town. “In what way and for what reason is there a price on my head?”

  “It suffices to say,” he says, “that the past returns to haunt you. You are familiar with the Battle of Bladepass, in 1326?”

  You blink with force. Confusion floods you. “A mere trifle,” you say, “A small dwarf militia pushed back an oncoming corps of orcblood raiders in a matter of hours. ‘Twas hardly integral to the larger war at the time, and was forgotten by history almost as quickly as it occurred.”

  “So you think.”

  You squint, suspicious. You process this information, while dodging the odd looks of a few passersby on this dirt path, which keeps your thoughts aimed inward for quite some time. You decide to question further, but look around you and notice that you now stand somewhere within the town graveyard. Dozens of tilted headstones cast long shadows in the dusk.

  “Why have you led us here, of all places?”

  The youth raises his bound fists above his head, snaps his fingers and shouts, “Thomerion shall prevail!”

  At that moment, deep from within a half-dozen graves burst just as many bony hands, which quickly claw at and break away the soil around them. You ready your axe and shield, as panic pulses through your muscles. Scraggly heads, with stretched white skin and bloodshot eyes, and then partially-clothed bodies, follow each undead hand. Within moments, the zombies surround you. Behind them, the youth laughs, turns and breaks into an awkward run, toward the forest.

  “By the gods…” Bartleby grumbles, “What now?”

  What do you do?

  We fight through the zombies to catch the youth!

  We run for our lives!