by Daniel Heck
You return to the peephole once more, and note that inside, some kind of lever mechanism is attached to both the tank and the door itself. Finally, a braided metal wire pokes up several feet out of the ground and into the chamber. Suspicion rises within you.
You glance at the others, who appear ready. The party reconvenes.
Zander says, “My door appears to be our overall target. It’s locked, but I surmise the key above us fits its keyhole.”
Bartleby says, “Mine has no keyhole, just a peephole. Within the chamber behind, a braided wire runs into a closed box, and against a wall therein stands a tall ladder.”
You shake your head. “I find this a mite hard to believe. Can’t we just smash in the door hiding the ladder, with Ol’ Rusty here?” You reach over your shoulder, and pat your battleaxe.
“It doesn’t appear all that strong,” Bartleby says, with a shrug.
“What? The door, or the axe?”
Bartleby frowns. “The door!”
Zander shouts, “Enough! Which option seems most prudent?”
What do you do?
We figure out the puzzle the hard way.
I cut down the door on the right.
Something funny’s going on here, you tell yourself. You spur your horse forward until it’s alongside Bartleby’s and explain what you thought you saw. “Let’s look into it,” the cleric agrees. You turn about and break into a brisk trot until you once again share the path with the carriage. The reinsman turns to frown at you.
“Good day, Miss Vermouth,” you chime.
Vermouth does not turn, but mumbles, “Good day…” Her head lilts, and her skin appears far paler than a typical half-elf’s.
Bartleby asks, “May we be of assistance?”
At that moment, the driver cracks the reins and kicks his horse, prompting an alarmed whinny. Vermouth yelps as the carriage lurches forward, but you are too quick for them, as you steer your mount into an interceptory position. Bartleby remains behind the carriage.
The pride of working together once again to cut off escape routes settles into your chest as you bellow, “Might we ask, why do you need to run? Where are you taking the mayoress of Sungaze?”
“This is official business,” the reinsman bellows back, “Yield!”
Bartleby says, “Perhaps the lady can speak for herself…”
You wait in silence, but glance inside once again from this closer perspective. Despite Vermouth’s half-hearted attempts to hide them, her hands are bound by iron manacles.
“By the gods,” you shout, “Why is she…”
The driver growls at you, stands and draws a broadsword. Vermouth screams and pulls her knees toward her chin as two males in black and red robes burst out of the carriage’s rear compartment. Each brandishes a talisman with the combination of skull and dagger upon it.
The eyes of all three flare with murderous intent.
What do you do?
I assist Bartleby with the robed men.
I fight the driver first.
You assert that you don’t need to make friends with the very first people you come across. Just hearing this new name should be enough.
Miracles, eh? Legends? I’ll see about that.
You chug the rest of your ale and emerge from the tavern. The best place to research legends, you reflect, would likely be the Ambrosinian library, within the royal grounds, so you begin your trek in the direction of the castle’s grand spires. Little of note occurs along the way, beyond the shouts of a few merchants hawking a velvet cloak here or a mystical wand there, but even those folks back away when they see the resolve in your eyes.
The drawbridge lay flat, and snappily-dressed couples locked in dainty conversation file in and out. When you approach, the gate guard barks, “State your intent.” You stand straight, hands behind your back.
“I intend to peruse the royal book depository,” you grunt.
“You are to respect the integrity of the grounds and all written materials, and will be watched at all times by royal personnel, who are instructed to enforce this rule at all costs. You are to keep your weapon sheathed at all times, and are to refrain from making sudden moves that may be interpreted as threatening or hostile. Are these clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
The guard pauses, and looks over you.
“You may pass.”
You begin to ponder upon how security has increased from the last time you were here, but are waved along to prevent traffic backup. You enter the library through a vast door just a few yards into the grounds.
Dozens of tomes of all ages, thicknesses, and types now flank you, sitting on warped wooden podiums and shelves older than you, as you clomp down an aisle and scan the titles for relevance. The leather bindings on some books squeak with newness when you handle them; in other cases, it would be a miracle if all the pages were present. Light chains lock down most volumes, valuable as they are. The establishment imposes upon you a deep-seated feeling of awe and respect.
You turn a corner, and catch the eye of the gnome bookkeeper, who seems busy transcribing something, but offers a polite nod in your direction. His green hat wobbles and nearly falls off his head.
“Pardon me, sir,” you grunt.
The gnome looks up. “How can I help you?”
“I seek information about a certain Demetrius Argent.”
The gnome clears his throat, and emits a weak giggle. “In that case,” he chirps, “you might want to speak to the halfling.”
You frown, and cross your arms. “What halfling?”
At that moment, a short someone whizzes by you, lugging a huge tome, open to its very middle. He marches up to the librarian, jabs a finger partway down a page, and shouts, “See, you old fart! I told you genies can’t bend their own rules. It says that if you wish for more wishes, you could rip a hole in the fabric of the universe!”
The gnome rolls his eyes, and replies, “Fascinating, Grindle… just…. fascinating...”
“Still,” Grindle rambles on, “One day I’m going to jaunt on out there and find me one of them buggers! All you have to do is rub the lamp…” His voice rings with excitement, and he closes the book with a whump. The title reads, ‘Legends of Olde, Heroes of Anew.’ Only when Grindle turns does he notice you standing in the same aisle. “Oh, hello!”
You nod calmly.
“What would you wish for, good sir,” he says to you, “if you could have anything you wanted granted by a genie?”
He seems harmless enough, if a bit energetic. On the other hand, everyone with half a brain knows genies don’t exist.
How do you respond?
I mention my need to heal a dying friend.
I cite a desire for endless riches.
You gaze into the twilight as your three companions discuss watch duties. Mikhail ends up with an extended first watch, with Zander on second, and Bartleby on stand-by. You smirk, as not a twinge of guilt weighs upon your heart, and you climb into your bedroll.
That night, a vision comes upon you. You see yourself standing within your stone hut, with Fedwick on his cot. You try to step toward him, but your legs feel useless, as if they stick you to the floor. You begin to hear an intermittent thumping sound, which comes in pairs.
The pulse-like sound grows louder, each iteration a bit bolder. You gaze at Fedwick, but he does not stir. Powerlessness drowns you, and you clench your hands over your ears. You scream. Just as the pounding climaxes, ready to pierce your very core…
“Yarrggh!”
You sit up, breathing hard, and wipe your brow. Zander turns toward you, and crouches. His demeanor calms you. “Are you all right?”
“’Tis but a musing of the gods,” you grunt, “have it meaning or no.” You recline once more, and rub out a twinge of pain in your hip.
“Sometimes, dreams have meaning,” the ranger offers, “My grandparents preached that the discussion of dreams fosters any positive change that may await on the horizon.”
“And�
�” you wonder aloud, “What about negative change?”
“Ah,” he replies, “There is one of the great mysteries, indeed.”
This sinks into you, heavy. Several moments pass.
“Should we fail,” you whisper, “to where would we turn next?”
Zander says over his shoulder, “You will find a way. The Black Rose? The lives that it maligned, they are gone. We do what we can about it, and little more. But in you, I see a unique fire that drives you, the fire of friendship.”
The wind howls, a chill omen of much to come.
Write down the keyword FIRE.
I go back to sleep...
Feeling bold, you point at the keyhole, and ask of Bartleby, “Shall we?” He looks over his shoulder once, but acquiesces, and keeps his talisman at the ready.
You inch forward, insert the key into the door, and take a deep breath. With some effort, you turn it. The door moans in a struggle of metal against aging metal as you pull it open.
Behind it lies a hexagonal chamber. A lighted oil lamp sits on a well-polished desk in the corner, and sparsely populated bookshelves line the walls. You notice a larger version of a now-familiar circular emblem etched into the stone floor: a skull, pierced by a dagger.
“I see you defeated my guardian,” utters a calm voice. You whirl about. From within the room’s darkest shadow steps a stout human male with salt-and-pepper hair and wearing black and red robes.
“Who are you?” you grunt. “And why do you entrap people in this place? Explain yourself!”
“Not so fast,” the robed man replies, approaching a lever in the far wall. “For you see, we’re in no hurry…”
He flips the lever, and the metal door, seemingly of its own power, closes and locks behind you. You inspect it only to find that there is somehow no keyhole from this side.
“…and, you’re not going anywhere.”
You turn back toward the man, and scowl. Bartleby folds his arms.
“What do you want from us?” you ask.
“It is you who should ask yourselves what you want from me.” The man’s even tone belies the oddity in his statement. “For you see, I am a bishop of the faith that will soon be your salvation. Some call me Richard the Redeemer. Others, Thomas the Tempest. My specific name matters not.”
Dubious, you continue to listen as the bishop paces the floor.
“What is important is that the Church of Thomerion seeks people like you. Determined, courageous, strong of heart and will. At a glance I can discern the spark within you. Most whom we encounter do not make it this far.”
“Enough babbling,” you say, “A friend is at death’s door by the hand of your church, and…”
“Ahh, then he, too, shall soon know the glory of our army.”
You blink. “Army?”
“But you, my friends,” the bishop continues, “You can have it easier. For you see, the living are almost as useful to us as the dead.”
A moment passes.
Is this person insane?
“I’ll make you a bargain. Join us,” the man hisses, “And your friend will yet live.”
You shout, “Now, wait just a…”
“I have the power to remove the seal and the disease.”
Bartleby places a placating hand on your shoulder, and asks of the bishop, “And if we refuse this bargain?”
The bishop smirks, and turns. “This chamber is rigged to be filled with toxic gas upon my command word.”
You assert, “Preposterous! You would die as well!”
“You, my friends, are the ones who fear death.”
Legitimately joining the Church of Thomerion wouldn’t stand as a long-term plan, but there’s a chance that this death threat isn’t the bluff that it seems on the surface.
What do you do?
We agree to the bargain, to gain an insider’s track to a cure for Fedwick.
We take down the bishop right here and now.
“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 win!
I pump my fist in celebration!
When your vision clears, you find yourself out in the open, near the gigantic boulder. You look about, and notice Bartleby nearby.
“We’ve been expelled from the compound, somehow,” you remark.
“Shall we try again?” the cleric asks.
You proceed back into and through the tunnel, to find that the giant porticullis still blocks your passage, only this time, you are on the other side, looking in. You shout through it, and garner no response. Argent has made it crystal clear he wants nothing to do with you. You could try to break through the barrier with your axe, but hold off, since it might get you in even greater trouble.
Your party heads back to town and investigates the supposed temple, an abandoned warehouse, after all, only to search among dusty crates for hours, but find nothing of value or consequence. On the way back to your hut, Bartleby recites a prayer to the patron god of mysteries, as deducing what to do next sinks into your soul as the greatest conundrum you’ve ever faced.
Minutes turns into hours, which turn into days of sitting within your hut, planning, and discussing possibilities with yourself. But for every one that you come up with, you find an equally compelling precedent telling you not to trust that it could ever work.
You ask random strangers on the street what they can do to help, but nobody can. Time runs out for Fedwick far faster than you’d anticipated. Perhaps, over time, you console yourself, the gods can forgive your inaction. If only they’d been kinder in the first place…
Don’t let evil win. Read another path!
Go back to where you met the group, or…
Restart from the beginning.
“Unless I am desperately needed elsewhere,” you say in your most humble tone, “I would like to go to Managhast. A friend has been inflicted with the seal of Thomerion, and the fruit could save him, as well as hundreds more, before they become part of the undead army.”
“Well said, my friend,” Bartleby chimes, clapping a hand on your shoulder. You look up at the cleric. It occurs to you that he has never before so directly called you a friend. And yet, now is the time when fate dares to send you in different directions.
You take his hand, pull him toward you and embrace.
As the two of you separate, Bartleby glances at Vermouth, who smiles warmly. “I will watch over her like a hawk.”
“You had better,” you grunt, “Or you’ll have to answer to me.”
The cleric chuckles, and retrieves his horse from the nearby wood.
Vermouth describes the general location of Managhast, a few days’ journey off the west coast, and says that her brother, Saul, has access to a ship and will be glad to take you there if you mention her. “He can be found in Fort Remnon. You must act quickly. Good luck to you.”
You watch as Bartleby assists the mayoress in mounting, then follows suit. Vermouth clutches him around the waist and waves at you as the pair gallop down the hill due south, shrinking in size until they appear no larger than a brown dot.
The sound of pained whinnies leads you to your own horse, who has laid himself down upon an expansive patch of moss. His rear right leg shines with blood and purple bruises. You mutter curses, regretting the timing of the cleric’s departure. As it is, you’ll have to walk.
It deserves better than to be eaten alive…
You take a vial of rubbing alcohol from your pack, tear a large piece of cloth from your tunic, and soak the cloth. While you hold the cloth over the horse’s mouth and nose, the creature casts up at you a thankful gaze and takes its final breaths.
Two losses in one, you reflect. How many more must I endure?
You repress a lump in your throat, hitch up your pack, and take a step forward.
Over time, the emerging sun’s warmth soothes your nerves and your heart. The few souls you pass on the path,
true to Vermouth’s description, seem oblivious that anything awry has occurred behind you. You attempt to inform many that they head into a besieged city, but most ignore you. Thoughts of powerlessness rage inside you.
Night has arrived by the time you reach Whitetail. You visit your hut, clear Fedwick’s forehead of sweat, and test his pulse. It is persistent but weak. You thank the universe for the opportunity to chance to sleep in your own bed.
The next morning, you purchase vials, rations, an extra waterskin and a map, then return to your hut and slip the cleric attending to Fedwick a couple gold pieces, all before the sun has risen a hand’s breadth into the sky. You hold your head high as you exit the west city gates.
The going poses little challenge for the first two days, but not long after you enter the deserts thereafter, your lips chap and your throat scratches like a feline upon a post. You drink, but your water does not sate you. Cracked soil, dotted with the occasional cactus, surrounds you.
People come to and fro on this route every day, you assert.
As you scan the area, however, no sign of civilization shows. You stop, and double-check on your map where you think you currently are. Even your light clothing now weighs you down. Your head swims as you glance sideways at the cruel orb that is the sun. You figure there is no other place to go but forward, and note something in the distance.
