by Drew Hayes
Grumph gave a snort that either indicated he took no offense or that he’d roast Thistle’s head on a dagger. The nonverbal language of his people was intentionally difficult to interpret, as it led to more misunderstandings and therefore more opportunities for violence.
“As for the ‘how’ questions,” Thistle continued, “those who serve Kalzidar faithfully are given powers of their own, not unlike the way I wield Grumble’s gifts. Theirs, however, focus on magic and deception. So long as his name is unknown, one of Kalzidar’s priests can deceive all but the most willful and stubborn of minds. That is how he was able to fool the town about the god he serves, his purpose for coming, likely even what rituals they were performing. The only thing we can be certain of is this: whatever that priest did, it was not meant to make these people’s situation better.”
“Three days ago.” Grumph said these words not to any person in the room in particular, more just out loud to the world as a whole. He was turning that fact over in his head, circling it carefully. In terms of wizardry, Grumph was about as inexperienced as one could be. He knew a total of five spells, and it had taken the intervention of a legendary artifact to help him grasp the last of those five. But Grumph was dedicated in his studies, and he’d grabbed every meager piece of information he could on their travels so far, as well as poring through his spell book day after day. In that time, he’d noticed that a lot of magical practices ran on certain numbers. Three, seven, and thirteen were the ones he’d noticed most frequently.
“Three days, as of today.” Grumph glanced out the small, barely noticeable window. What precious time they’d possessed had dwindled as they got a room and Thistle prayed. Dusk was nearly upon them, and the night would quickly follow. “As of tonight,” Grumph amended. “This may be trouble.”
“Unfortunately, I’m forced to agree, though perhaps not for the same reasons as Grumph,” Thistle told them. “Fate seems to have handed us what most adventurers would consider an incredible experience. For us to have arrived at just this moment, when the situation is so evidently perilous and fraught with danger . . . it would be folly to assume we won’t bear witness to the tipping point when this all goes south.”
“How can you be so sure of that?” Timuscor asked.
“Because that is the way the world works for adventurers,” Thistle replied. “I spent years seeing it firsthand, and while I can’t say I fully understand the reasoning for it even now, I do accept the inevitability to a certain extent. There’s always the chance that I’m wrong, that perhaps it will be the seventh day when things go amiss and some other group of travelers will deal with the fallout, but I’d advise that we all brace for the worst rather than allow ourselves to succumb to optimism’s siren song.”
“Why don’t we get out of here?” Eric pointed out the tiny window, where the dwindling light of day was streaming in. “There’s still time to get on the horses and be clear of this town by nightfall.”
“Maybe the town itself, but we’d still be in Briarwillow,” Gabrielle said. “Remember how long it took us from seeing the first farm to getting here? That’s a lot of space to cross with places for people and things to hide in.”
“Additionally, if Kalzidar’s servant has put something to work here, then he may well have stayed in secret to see it through.” Thistle gently set his armored hands against one another, making a small ting that rang clear through the air. “Trying to escape from one who serves the god of darkness under the cover of night could prove to be quite perilous.”
“So we should wait here to die?” Eric stood from his seat, moving almost soundlessly, even in heated impulse.
“I don’t know.” Thistle shrugged, rattling his armor as he met the uncertain eyes of every one of his friends. “Stay or go, either is risky. Not every situation has a perfect solution; often, you just have to take your pick from the array of poor choices spread out before you. Far as I can tell, it’s a bit of a toss-up on this one.”
“Right now, we have a room to barricade ourselves in, offering at least a little protection,” Timuscor said. “Perhaps it’s not much, but after weeks of sleeping out in the open, it feels like a fortress. If we flee, there’s also the chance that we might run into monsters on the road.”
“Or get sick,” Grumph tacked on. The threat of infection was very real and needed to be kept prevalent in the others’ minds.
“Dragonshit, that part slipped my mind.” Gabrielle pressed her fingers to her forehead, checking for any signs of fever. “I was going to say we should run, but from what the people around here were saying, it seemed like the first stage of the plague was a death-like state. Being out in the open like that . . . we’d be food for the first monster that wandered in our direction.”
“Maybe we should give it a night,” Eric suggested. “If we’re going to get sick, then let’s assume it will happen soon. Come tomorrow morning, we ride out of here with dawn’s light, gods willing. Should something go wrong before then . . . well, Timuscor was right, it’s nice to have four walls and a roof as protection for a change.”
“Wood and nails will offer us very little fortification against the power of magic, but I find myself inclined to agree nonetheless.” Thistle nodded his head, though one of his hands went to his stomach and tried to rub it through the armor. “Little though it is, I’ll take any amount of shielding I can get. Besides, I think we would all do well with a hot meal and a decent night’s rest. Living on the run takes a toll over time.”
No one disputed that fact, as the smells from the downstairs kitchen had been wafting up through the floorboards, tempting every adventurer with thoughts of fresh, warm food. Dire as the danger in staying might be, it offered some elements of comfort, and if they were going to die anyway, it seemed logical to at least go out with full stomachs and happy smiles.
“That’s it then, we stay?” Eric asked.
“Aye, that would be the choice our group seems to be leaning toward,” Thistle agreed. “We’ll be cautious about it, barring the door and sleeping in shifts just to stay safe, but in the end, I doubt that we’ll anticipate whatever the priest of Kalzidar is up to. Maybe if there were some servants or minions about Grumble would give me a bit of a clue, but as it stands, I think we are likely on our own.”
“Well, if we’re going to be waiting around for possible death all night, I’m at least going to have a buzz when it shows up.” Gabrielle pulled herself away from the wall on which she’d been leaning and headed to the door. “Ale and food seem like the perfect ways to pass the time until bed. Anyone else want to join me?”
It took no more prompting than that to get everyone out the door and heading downstairs to the inn’s kitchen. While the ale they found was somewhat lacking compared to the elixir Grumph had once produced, the food was hearty and delicious, made even more so by the elusive spice known as ravenous hunger. It was a night of comfort, warmth, and ease that the party had needed even more than they’d realized, a bright spot on the dingy path they’d been walking.
In the hellish nightmare of the next few days, this evening would be looked upon fondly, a shining reminder of the life they were desperately trying to get back to.
* * *
As the moon shone down on the untended crops, a single, svelte figure stepped lightly amidst the weeds and wheat. He was here for a harvest, though he had come for nothing so mundane as corn or grains. From his belt dangled a black velvet sack, bulging from the size of the item contained within. It bounced against the twisted symbol of his god, which was enchanted to appear as whatever false priest he was pretending to be. A useful tool, as were all the pieces of equipment he employed. He’d needed precious few of them to complete this mission; the desperation of Briarwillow’s citizens had done most of the work for him.
How they’d gazed at him when he promised to save their town. Such longing, hope, and reverence all condensed into teary-eyed stares. It was almost enough to understand why some went into the work of heroing. That level of admirati
on was intoxicating, albeit misplaced when directed at him. He hadn’t lied though, not as he saw it. He’d offered them salvation, and that was what he intended to deliver. If it was not the salvation they’d expected, well, that was their fault for not asking more questions.
His eyes charted the moon’s movement through the sky, waiting patiently for the appointed time to arrive. Kalzidar had been very specific in the visions he sent to his servant. Divine guidance had told this priest to come to Briarwillow, retrieve the skull, and how to make use of it. Tricking the citizens into pledging themselves to the ancient totem’s power had been simple enough, but it would all be for naught if the final piece of the ceremony wasn’t handled perfectly. Even then, the task would be far from over; however, the priest did not dwell on such a fact. One did not slay a kingdom in a single blow, as the saying went. One did it by taking a single life at a time.
As the fat white sphere rose higher through the night sky, his pale hand plunged into the velvet sack, retrieving its contents with careful motion. The skull did not gleam in the night sky’s pale light. Rather, it seemed to darken, causing the carefully prepared altar the priest had set up to become bathed in shadow. It was no matter to the man holding the skull; sight in even the darkest of pits was one of the first gifts Kalzidar bestowed upon his faithful. Power coursed up his slender fingers where he gripped the ancient totem, trying to worm its way in to work destruction on his mortal body. With a minor effort of will, the priest pushed the energy back to its source. He was no simple farmer or miner stumbling across power he couldn’t hope to understand. Such petty tricks would not work on him.
The altar was a simple one, constructed from stones and magic over the three days he’d stayed hidden in the field. Three days to let the magic ripen, readying it for the harvest to come. Gingerly, he set the skull down in the center of a circle of runes that were the color of dried blood. It rested there quietly, as though there were nothing at all malicious about the power contained in the prison of bone.
He looked up the sky once more, certain that the time was drawing near. It wasn’t a short window of opportunity, but he preferred to get things going as soon as possible. There was always the potential for interference, and he could not allow himself to fail on a mission directly from Kalzidar himself. The wicked god of darkness was, as one might expect, not known for his patience or mercy.
Raising his pale hands into the night air, the priest began to chant. His words hung on the moon’s beams as they swirled about the makeshift altar. From within the skull, a new power began to pulse. Old, nearly forgotten by most, this magic had been sealed in earth and stone for countless years. Now, it yearned to stretch and move and exist. The power bucked against its prison, even as the priest’s words weakened the seals binding it.
Very soon, it would run free, and death would follow at its heels.
Chapter 5
“Okay, Wimberly has two alchemist fires suspended in the trees overhead, a halberd trap ready to spring in the bushes, and two of her crafted, magical remote crossbows pointed at the clearing’s entrance.” Bert scanned the map carefully, focusing only on the part his character could see. “She raises her flare wand and shoots it over the tops of the trees, letting the others know that the battleground is ready.”
“Vision checks, all around,” Russell instructed. The difficultly of the check was supremely low, since they’d all been watching for the signal. He was essentially just checking for critical failures (rolling a natural one on the twenty-sided die). Those rolls resulted in automatic failure, and too many could even kill a character off entirely. That almost never happened, though; “almost” being the key phrase. After what had gone down with his last group, Russell didn’t dismiss the possibility of anything going awry anymore.
“Woo! Twenty-five with my new goggles’ bonus. Chalara sees the ever-loving shit out of that flare.” Cheri took a sip of the soda she’d covertly slipped rum into before coming down for the day’s game. She’d been drinking it less than expected, as the gaming group was actually turning out to be more fun than anticipated. Cheri had really just wanted a way to kill time and not think about the pile of shit she had waiting for her back at school, but after a few sessions, she’d fallen into the old groove and started digging the game.
It certainly helped that the players were actually pretty cool. Once Bert had seen how battle worked, Wimberly had become a damn savant in terms of strategy and field position. Even now, the little gnome was setting up a clearing for them to herd the barghests into, where they’d walk into all manner of gadgeteer death.
“With a fifteen, I trust Gelthorn is able to see the flare?” Alexis asked softly. Russell nodded, then braced, as did the rest of the table. They’d all quickly learned that while Alexis was quiet and meek, she was also very into roleplaying her character. And Gelthorn was . . . less gentle in manner and speech, to put it kindly.
“TO ME!” Alexis shouted, her voice suddenly as forceful as a speeding truck. “We drive them to the arms of Hell!” With that, she rolled an attack to draw the barghests’ attention—as if the yell hadn’t been enough—and the chase was on.
“I got a twelve, is that enough?” Tim asked, a bit of worry apparent in his voice. The plan relied heavily on him being ready to cut off the barghests’ escape from the clearing, so if he missed the signal, things would get rough. Cheri could actually see him sweating a bit with nerves. It amazed her how seriously he took his role as the team’s paladin, acting as though it were truly matters of life and death on the line with every battle. The kid was either nuts or a born role-player; either way, it made him more enjoyable to have in the game.
“That’s plenty,” Russell told him. “You can move to get into position on your turn.”
“Chalara is going to climb up the ladder Wimberly readied and prepare to start blasting barghests.” Cheri had been through many a character in her years of playing, but she always seemed to find the most joy in wielding the glass cannons that were mages. The ability to call down fiery magical wrath was something she might have enjoyed having in her real life—though even she would admit it would be utterly foolish for anyone to give her such power.
“Let’s just hope we don’t attract any other roaming monsters again,” Bert said, still carefully studying the board. “This whole forest is thick with the things.”
“Yeah, and we’re tearing through them, grabbing gold and experience from every encounter,” Cheri pointed out. “This has got to be the best campaign in the module. Imagine if we’d picked the one about sick people. We’d be fighting a case of the sniffles, or maybe a spooky bandage monster.”
“We could always go investigate that once the tower is saved,” Tim suggested.
“Please, with how hard Russell has been emphasizing time passage and reality? No way that quest option will still be there,” Cheri told him. “Trust me; those people are probably long dead by now.”
* * *
Thistle didn’t know if it was the pain or the wailing that tore him from his sleep, nor did he have the presence of mind to figure it out amidst the twin distractions. Around him, the others bolted up from their mats on the room’s floor as a symphony of screams echoed through the town. It was a horrid, soul-wrenching sound. These were not yells of anger, or hatred, or even terror. They were the sound of pure, unmitigated anguish. And yet, as awful as they were, they paled in comparison to what Thistle could feel in his gut.
It was as though a phantom blade had been slammed through his stomach and was somehow twisting about in his stomach lining. As soon as Thistle became aware of it, the pain vanished, and yet the sensation somehow remained. He was torn between the desire to groan, cry, and throw up. Instead, he slowly pulled himself up from the ground and grabbed his belt. On it hung a pair of sheathes made for him by Sierva, ones that let him call his daggers back after they’d been thrown. Generally, this was worn on top of his fitted armor; however, since he’d been trying to sleep, he was adorned only in simple clot
hing.
Gabrielle and Timuscor were similarly unprotected; only Eric was bothering to slip his veilpanther leather over his clothes. Since it was closer to cloth than armor, he was able to do so quickly, even as he pulled his father’s short sword free from its sheath. Grumph had yanked free his own blade—made from the tail of a demon—while Gabrielle was unwrapping her axe. Timuscor, as the one who’d actually been keeping watch over the door, already had his sword and shield at the ready.
The five adventurers stared at the door, waiting for the first attack to come. If they were lucky, the small bar keeping it shut would hold and they’d have some warning of the impending assault. If they were unlucky, which certainly seemed to be the way things were going at the moment, then it would get knocked clear off and they’d be in a fray.
As they waited, the wailing slowly died away, leaving the town of Briarwillow unnaturally silent. Ears strained as they listened for the slightest sound of steps ascending stairs or creeping down the inn’s wooden hall. They stared at the door, weapons ready, bodies tense and waiting for the signal to act.
After roughly five minutes had passed, Eric finally broke the silence that had descended over them. “Is it possible no one is coming for us?”
“Does sort of seem like they would have made a move by now,” Gabrielle agreed. “Should . . . should we be going out there to do something?”
“Aye, seems that would be what any good party of violence-hungry adventurers would do,” Thistle admitted. The twisting in his stomach was beginning to fade, albeit very slowly. Had he known for certain what it signified, he suspected there would have been obligations laid upon him by his service to Grumble. As it was yet in doubt, however, he was erring on the side of keeping the people he cared for safe. “But I can’t say I think it’s a good idea to leave here unarmored, especially with an entire town of potentially fever-mad citizens who may no longer be quite as friendly.”
