by Drew Hayes
“Thistle, you’re our expert on gods. If I can see the trail and you can’t, does that mean Tristan wants us to go, but Grumble doesn’t?” Eric appreciated the help Tristan had offered thus far; however, he’d actually met and talked with Grumble. Between the two, he was willing to trust the divine kobold who watched over minions more than the god who served sneaks and thieves, even if Eric now belonged to said sneaks and thieves.
“Working with as little information as we have right now, it’s impossible to say for certain. Even our assertion that this is the work of the gods is speculative. It could just as easily be a Bridge side effect, as you no doubt suspected.” Thistle hesitated, his eyes drifting toward Gabrielle, then jerking away. “However, speaking as an adventurer more than as a paladin, my instinct is to see where the trail leads. Lumal is not going to be an easy hurdle for us to clear. There are many obstacles in our paths, and countless ways the visit could go terribly wrong. If we’re stumbling onto something like this only a few days from the entrance, part of me can’t help suspecting that it’s not by coincidence. Whatever lies down that path might very well help us in our goal of entering Lumal.”
“Or it’s a trap,” Grumph added.
“You’re quite right, old friend. That, too, is a possibility. If the party wishes to walk past, I won’t object. Whatever we do next, we do it together.”
All eyes were on Eric, and the stares were beginning to make him uncomfortable. Usually, Thistle was their default leader, but lately, he’d been throwing some key choices onto Eric’s shoulders. This seemed to be another such case. At least in this instance, Eric could understand the reasoning. As the only one who could see the path, he was also the sole person who might be able to help them along it and spot hidden dangers. Sadly, all Eric could make out at that moment were a few squirrels scampering among the nearby branches.
“Let’s decide this together. Thistle votes for going down the mystery trail. How does everyone else feel about it?” Eric asked.
Gabrielle was the first to respond, barely waiting until Eric had finished. “Honestly, I know we have to go, but I’ve been dreading being locked up in a stuffy town with no fighting or monsters. This seems more interesting, so I say we see where it leads.”
“Where you all go, I follow. To Lumal, down a hidden road among the trees, or into the Plane of Fire itself. Lead us where you see fit, Eric. My role does not change regardless of where we are.” It was about the response they’d expected from Timuscor. The man was stalwart and loyal beyond a shadow of doubt, although his strange origins and core of uncertainty made him hesitant to dictate the course of others.
That left only Grumph, who’d raised the idea of this being a trap in the first place. His expression, like that of most half-orcs, was hard to read. The large wizard sat atop his horse for nearly a half minute of silence before trotting over to Thistle. “Strong magic means a strong mage. Dangerous enemy. Useful ally.” Another beat of silence. “We have plenty of enemies, so one more may not matter, but we could use more allies.”
Three for going and one abstaining. Even if Eric were inclined to pass this up, which he wasn’t, the will of the party was clear. “All right then, let’s run some rope between the horses. I’m not sure if you’ll see through the illusion once you’re in it or if there are more wards ahead, so let’s be certain we can follow each other no matter what twists this path might take.”
As the others began pulling rope from their packs, Eric looked down the trail one more time. It was impossible to tell precisely where it led, but he had a hunch it would be somewhere interesting. He just hoped it wouldn’t be so interesting that they didn’t make it out alive.
4.
No one looked up as the door creaked open to reveal the diminutive form of Jolia the gnome wandering in from outside. At this time of day, the only people inside the Vengeful Ale were those who regularly stopped by during the day: a small table of older friends downing mead in the back of the room, shifty-eyed characters who were here more out of habit than for any true purpose, the burly bartender himself, and, of course, Kieran. While not much for the drink, Kieran was here almost daily for lunch. Cooking, it was alleged, was one of the few skills he’d failed to master in his time journeying across the lands. That was the excuse, anyway. Most of the townsfolk thought Kieran really came to argue with Brock, the bartender. About what, it mattered not. They seemed to enjoy the act of disagreeing with one another more than making ground on any actual topic.
Today, the gnome could hear them through the door as she approached, and was already aware that they were debating whether or not mages were more dangerous with wands or staffs. Personally, she was on the side of staffs, but that was as a wielder. Considering the danger of an opponent equipped with such an item was an entirely different equation.
“It’s a hunk of fucking wood. You get past all the spells, all the wards, all the mumbo-jumbo, and they can still crack you on the head with a length of oak. You’re really going to sit there and tell me you think a wand is more dangerous than a legitimate weapon?” Brock sounded precisely the way anyone who looked at him would expect. “Rough” was often the word used to describe their local bartender, and it fit him in virtually every capacity. From his loud, grizzly voice, to his calloused hands, to the way his beard had been choppily trimmed with a dull blade and was always a little dirty.
Kieran, in contrast, was the very picture of composure: clothing clean and pressed, boots polished, sword and scabbard positioned just so on his hip. Not that he would ever draw on Brock—or anyone else in town, for that matter—without just cause. Small scrapes would occasionally happen around town, but fighting seriously, with a weapon drawn, was grounds for expulsion from their village. No one held to that rule more than Kieran, since he was viewed by many as a default leader and took that responsibility seriously.
“You make it sound like you can’t handle someone with the physical skills of a mage and a wooden club. The wands are more dangerous because they make all that ‘mumbo-jumbo’ you dismissed exponentially more accurate. I’m not worried about fighting a caster when I get to them; it’s the getting there that’s the hard part.”
“Speaking as someone who actually wields these tools,” Jolia interjected, “it shouldn’t matter what the mage is using. If they let you get to them at all, then they’ve fundamentally lost the battle. A good caster should never get blood on their robes; bit of wisdom my teacher imparted.”
Kieran and Brock both nodded. They appreciated the opinion of an expert when it was applicable. “Jolia’s got a point there,” Kieran agreed. “The worst would be when you finally make it to them, and then they pop some kind of teleportation or transformation spell. I once had to make it through a gauntlet of magic, only to fight a mage turned four-headed hydra at the end.”
“Four heads was a challenge? Were you poisoned or something?” Brock sneered back.
“Just young.” For the first time, Kieran appeared to realize that Jolia hadn’t immediately ordered a drink upon entering. His eyes lingered on her colorful robes for several seconds. “Anyway, what brings you into our daily bickering, Jolia?”
She scanned the room once, though there was no need. This community didn’t keep secrets— not from each other, at least. Most things would be found out eventually, and they were all mature enough to handle whatever issues arose head-on. Still, as a former court magician, secrecy and betrayal had been bred into Jolia, and some habits were harder to shake than others.
“Someone’s coming. I felt my wards be disturbed a few minutes ago and did some quick scrying. It’s a small group, no one we’re expecting, and while they’re colored by some strange magics, they don’t seem strong enough to pose any danger. My larger concern is how they discovered the path in the first place.”
“Could be a lot of things,” he replied. “Maybe the gods are guiding them, or they have an item that lets them pierce illusions. Perhaps it’s simply pure, dumb luck, that rare sudden moment of unexpect
ed competence.”
They all knew what Kieran was referring to. Everyone who dealt with adventurers did. Sometimes, seemingly apropos of nothing, an adventurer would have sudden bursts of incredible fortune or failure. A rookie with a bow could accidentally land an arrow in the eye of a dragon, or an experienced combat veteran could completely miss something as slow-moving as a slime. After seeing it happen often enough, they began chalking the whole thing up to natural phenomenon. It wasn’t as though they had many other options for how to deal with the curiosity.
Taking one last bite of the too-thick stew Brock was serving, Kieran stepped down from his seat and stood to his full height. It wasn’t terribly impressive. He was taller than Jolia, but that was assumed for a human when compared to a gnome. Brock, who was also human, towered over them both. Once, when he was young and brash, Kieran had possessed quite a temper regarding his height. But time had softened even that; nowadays, he considered it more of an interesting quirk than something to get riled up over.
“How they got in doesn’t really matter. We’ve had the occasional wandering adventurer make it through before. The real question is whether we let them make it all the way here or drive them off. If they’re weak, then they probably aren’t coming here to conquer. So long as they pass our test, I favor turning them around quickly like the rest.”
“Do they have anyone interesting with them?” Brock interrupted. “I could go for a new story or two inside these walls. Been a while since anyone made it through.”
Jolia hesitated. There were some unusual aspects to this party, but she was reluctant to get Brock too excited about the prospects. If Kieran opted to drive them out, then Brock would pout for a full week, and his cooking often paid the price for his moods. Still, this town operated on openness, so there was little point in keeping secrets.
“You’ll have to forgive me if any of this is wrong; I wasn’t kidding about the odd magic swirling around them. That said, from what I could tell, they were being led by a human with few distinguishing features. After him was a gnome with a high concentration of divine energy, so most likely a priest, except he was wearing armor. Old armor, at that, with its own divine aura. Near him was a half-orc I nearly mistook for a spear-wielder, until I noticed that he was glowing with enough mana to qualify as a caster. First caster I’ve seen with a blade on their staff, but then, he’s also the first half-orc mage I’ve seen, so I suppose it makes sense. After that was an undead woman carrying an axe that’s practically dripping with power, and behind her was another man in armor, this one human and mostly normal.”
Brock leaned his head halfway across the bar, excitement already glowing in his eyes. “Mostly?”
“He had a wild boar rigged up on the side of his saddle so it could ride with him, adorned in what looked like a miniature version of the man’s own armor,” Jolia explained. “That seemed… not so normal.”
“Strange group, unusual equipment and energies, heading directly our way.” There was a heaviness to Kieran’s words as he more fully considered the situation before them. “That seems a tad too specific for it to be random chance that brought them here. Some god must be damn desperate, if they’re sending this party in our direction. I doubt it’s even their fault. Nothing inherently malicious about taking a path in the woods. What do you think, shall we test them?”
Jolia and Brock both considered the proposal. They didn’t get many visitors, save for those with permission to come here. The few who did find their way onto the path were rarely allowed to continue. Testing was a way they’d come up with to decide whether or not any given party was the kind of people they wanted to permit inside their borders. The methods varied each time, depending on the party makeup, but the core goal remained the same: to see, when pushed to their limits, what sort of people these adventurers turned out to be.
“Testing sounds fair. Shame we drive almost everyone off, sounds like they’ve got some members that could be fun.” Brock paused, growing visibly uncomfortable. When he spoke again, the reason became immediately evident. There was only one person in this town, perhaps in the world, who truly scared Brock down to his bones. “Much as I hate to say this, if they’ve got an undead with them, the testing should go to Simone.”
Jolia and Kieran exchanged a brief look until the former spoke. “Think she’s willing?”
“She joined the town council. Part of that means pitching in when these situations arise.” Kieran took a step toward the door, visibly steeling himself. Brock wasn’t the only one who felt unnerved by Simone. “I’ll handle asking her. It will take them a few hours to make it here by that path, so we’ve got time. Hopefully enough for me to convince Simone.”
Without another word, he strode out into the open air, only slightly slowed by the burden of his duty. Jolia hopped up into his bar-chair using the rungs Brock installed for his smaller customers. “Let me get an ale, then, while we’re waiting.”
Brock cocked an eyebrow, even as he began to pour. “You sure you want one while we’ve got intruders in the woods?”
“I’ve got a hunch I’ll want a buzz before this day is over. Besides, we’re both aware that Kieran will succeed, so Simone should start casting in the next few minutes.” Jolia paused to take a long, deep draw from the tankard Brock set down in front of her. “And once Simone gets going… well, there’s not much more we’ll need to worry about. That woman knows how to handle a job.”
* * *
Thistle felt the shift before he saw it. A twist in his gut, not quite like the sensation when evil was around, yet not nearly far enough from it for Thistle’s liking. Some force was coming, a power that bristled against his own connection to the divine. Not wasting a moment, he pierced the air with a sharp whistle, high and long—their signal to indicate that trouble was approaching, and fast. There might not be time to coordinate, but he could at least give his friends enough time to draw their weapons. Already daggers were dancing in Thistle’s hands, waiting for a target to sink into.
Their first visual confirmation came seconds later, when a streak of black shot across the sky. For an instant, Thistle thought it was an airborne enemy hunting them through the trees. Then he saw the streak widen, faster and faster, until every last ounce of daylight had been blotted from the sky. Visibility shrank rapidly as the forest darkened. Within seconds, they’d be nearly blind.
Quick as his body and armor would allow, Thistle leaned forward and pressed his hand onto Eric’s saddle. Gleaming white light rippled out from the item, illuminating their nearby surroundings. Without wasting so much as a word, the others clustered near Thistle so he could imbue their items with the same light-giving magic. He always hesitated to think of it as casting—the act felt more akin to seeing a small prayer granted right before his eyes—but from a practical perspective, he supposed it was the divine equivalent of casting a spell.
Before a full minute had passed, Thistle had managed to use his light enchantment on Grumph’s staff, Timuscor’s shield, his own daggers, and Eric’s saddle. Only Gabrielle declined the magical aid, since her eyes seemed to still be working fine. It made sense—no need to put a glowing target on one’s back without reason—but Thistle hoped her vision would hold up in this magically created darkness. They were dealing with an unknown assailant; taking anything for granted was dangerous.
“Intruders.”
The word came from all around, above and below, as if whispered by an army hidden perfectly within the trees. Thistle undid the rope on his saddle and rode forward, getting in front of Eric. Leading them through a disguised path was one thing, but when danger reared its head, it was the paladin whose place was at the front of the party, so as to better protect the others.
“Mysterious Voice, I offer my sincere apologies. We found this trail—admittedly concealed, but otherwise unmarked—and chose to explore it. Clearly, that was a mistake, and we have wandered onto property under your possession. I ask only that you permit us to turn around and leave peacefully, as we mean
no harm and wish for no bloodshed.”
Playing the most likely odds, they’d either walked onto the property of someone evil, or someone who simply treasured their privacy. Despite the strange magic in the air, Thistle wasn’t sensing any actual evil, so he’d pinned his hopes on the latter situation. If they could convince this entity they’d come here by mistake and not with ill intentions, then they just might make it out peacefully. Any caster who had the kind of magic to make it appear as though they’d darkened the entire sky was not someone this party was ready to tangle with.
“A mistake? You journeyed past a series of powerful wards and illusions by mistake?” There was laughter in the voice, a kind Thistle didn’t care for.
“We were curious to see what had caused such things, but had no way of realizing someone was living here. It was our mistake, clearly, and again, I am sorry for any inconvenience we have caused.”
Silence this time, or near silence. There were still some small sounds: scraping, rattling, noises that didn’t bring anyone who heard them much comfort. When the reply finally came, the laughter at its edges had grown stronger.
“Very well. A mistake it was. Yet, errors must be atoned for, mustn’t they? Most of you may flee. The undead woman, however, stays behind. She seems interesting, quite the subject for study. Cast her aside, and rest of you may depart in peace. Refuse, and you can try to leave together.”
A sharp flash of light lanced the darkness. No more than a split-second of phosphorescence, but to the party’s dilated eyes, it was enough to illuminate the entire forest. From behind the trees and out of the ground, the monsters came. Skeletons, shambling corpses, flying creatures that looked like normal animals carved apart and stitched back together – a veritable army stepped into view just as the flash came. When the bright spot faded, the party could still see them, lingering at the edges of Thistle’s magical light, a mere fraction of the actual force they were facing.
