Before dawn the next day the Hand found themselves gathered, along with with the Lords Grimbold and Aldor, and Aldor’s son Imrah, in the Gateway Chamber of the city of Zhan-Tor. It was an immense, eight-sided space in a lower level of the subterranean part of the city, at least three stories high. The center of the chamber was filled by a massive granite monolith, also eight-sided, which stood five meters tall and was topped by an ornate cap of bronze and steel. It sat on a circular stone dais, and four massive chains rose from the cap to vanish into the shadows of the four-lobed roof.
It was not the first time Devrik had seen a Nitarin Gateway protected by placing solid matter over its locus, but this one was by far the most impressive, he had to admit. No one was using this portal without proper authorization, nor would any would-be invaders be using it to sneak into the city!
The chamber was dimly lit by amber glowstones spaced around the walls, and as the party entered through the twin bronze doors two guards materialized from the shadows. They spoke no words, but Grimbold stepped forward and handed them a sheave of stamped and sealed papers. A few moments of dutiful examination, and one of the guards vanished back into the shadows; the other ushered the party over to stand at the foot of the shallow stairs leading up to the central dais.
After a few minutes there was a faint bass rumble from the stone beneath their feet… Toran was the first to notice it, but in seconds everyone was aware of it. Above them the sound of metal grating as it moved over stone echoed, and ever so slowly the four massive chains pulled taut and began to lift the granite monolith into the air. Almost everyone’s eyes widened at the sight, and several of the group stepped back in alarm.
“What are they using to power the gears lifting that monster?” Toran whispered to Grimbold. “What gear ratios are they using?”
“The main channel of the River Hündek runs directly beneath this chamber, and its mighty flow is what powers the mechanism,” the older Khundari replied, clearly pleased at his interest. “The gear ratios are—“
“Never mind about that,” Draik squeaked as the geometric pattern on the dais floor became visible. “Are you really expecting us all to just step up and stand under that thing?!”
“It’s perfectly safe, my young friend,” Grimbold assured him. “Those are Khundari-forged chains, after all.”
“Yes, and we haven’t crushed an outlander… by accident… in months,” agreed the portal guard, completely deadpan. Draik squinted at him in suspicion of being mocked, then glared at Grimbold. It was hard to be sure with all that beard, but he was almost certain the old ambassador was laughing at him.
Before he could give voice to his indignation, Mariala patted him on the shoulder and smiled in reassurance. “I’m confident there’s nothing to worry about, Draik. We won’t step onto the platform until Vulk opens the gate, and at that point even if the chains broke we’d be gone before the block could crush us, right? Besides, do you think Lord Grimbold would risk it himself if there were any real danger?”
Draik reluctantly allowed himself to be mollified, although he continued to eye the massive stone suspiciously, as it loomed ominously five meters over the dais. Meanwhile, Vulk and Devrik muttered together, the fire mage lending his arcane power to Vulk’s ritual… after a few minutes they announced the portal was opened and locked onto their destination.
Grumbling under his breath, Draik was the last one to step onto the platform, and he didn’t run to the center and the, to him still quite invisible, portal. He just walked very quickly. With the usual slight disorientation he always felt with Gate travel, he found himself standing in the courtyard of the monastery of Alatonu-Kahar, more than 700 kilometers southwest of where he’d been…
• • • • • • •
Imrah happened to be standing closest to the portal when the interesting apothecary fellow stepped through, looking very relieved. He’d only met the man briefly at Lord Grimbold’s birthday celebration, but had thought him rather humorous. Certainly he’d been easier to talk to than the tall and intimidating Telnori gladiator, the shorter but even more intimidating fire mage-fighter, or the aloof and intimidating lady, and more relatable than either the strangely lithe Khundari or the indiscriminately lascivious cantor of Kasira. Draik was also the only one of the so-called Hand of Fortune who was not a much more experienced T’ara Kul than Imrah himself. In fact, he wasn’t a practitioner at all.
“So, how was your recent visit to the famous mushroom caverns?” he asked, choosing a conversational topic he knew was of interest to the other man. “Did you learn anything that will be useful to you in your apothecary work?”
Draik looked briefly surprised, apparently having planned to make a beeline across the courtyard to where Lord Grimbold, Imrah’s father, and Cantor Vulk were conferring with several of the Telnori monks. Instead, after a quick glance at the others, he shrugged and turned toward Imrah, smiling amiably enough.
“Oh yes, it was actually quite fascinating. I’ve had a professional interest, you might say, in all things fungi for a couple of years now, and Master Hradlok certainly showed me some things I’d never seen nor heard of before. I even talked him into giving me a few samples, which I hope may help improve my own greatest achievement, in time.”
“Ah, your famous Baylorium! It’s a fungus-based creation itself, if I understood what I’ve heard of it? A rather rare and unusual one?”
“Indeed. Not merely rare, but absolutely unique,” Draik said, somewhat smugly he thought. “Remind me to tell you the tale of our discovery of it, when we have more time – it’s too long a story, and it looks like we’re ready to head out already.”
Glancing over, Imrah saw that the Lady Mariala and Ser Devrik had joined the others near the gate, which was swinging open. The Telnori monks were motioning their guests forward, and his father turned to look for him. At his annoyingly tolerant gesture, Imrah and Draik gathered up Erol, who had been studiously examining some rather uninteresting carvings on the far side of the courtyard, and moved to rejoin the group.
“Erol gets a little nervous around real Telnori,” Draik said to him, not quite sotto voce enough as they passed out of the monastery. Two coaches stood outside the pale, six horses harnessed to each, and his father was just climbing into the first one. Lord Grimbold, Lady Mariala and Cantor Vulk joined him, leaving Ser Devrik to join Imrah, Draik and Erol in the second coach.
“Um, real Telnori?” Imrah said, trying to distract himself from the fact he was going to spend the next couple of hours sitting next to (or maybe across from) the gravel-voiced warrior-mage. “But isn’t he… I mean, aren’t you…?” He glanced uncertainly at Erol, who just rolled his eyes… and was it Imrah’s imagination, or did the ferret look annoyed too?
“Oh, his body is Telnori, to be sure,” Draik said, laughing. “But his mind… isn’t. It isn’t a lot of things, actually—”
“It’s a long story,” Erol interrupted. “And complicated. But before my little friend here tries to tell you about it, I suppose I’d better do it myself. After all, it’s not like he was actually there when it all went down… which is why he always gets the details wrong.”
The eastern sky was growing lighter as the party rolled away from Alatonu-Kahar, and Erol began his tale of death, limbo, and rebirth…
• • • • • • •
It was late morning when they arrived at the the port of Daronn, not the largest city on the island of Kezdan, but the closest to their ultimate destination. A fast Imperial sloop, the Sea Witch was waiting for them in the harbor, and there was no waiting for the tide – several oar tugs pulled them out to the open sea, and from there it was only a short sail to the island of Asdach.
Once they were under weigh, Imrah found himself alone with his father at the port railing, watching the Kezdan coast slip by. “So,” Aldor began after a few moments of introspective silence, “I’m still not certain you should be accompanying us on this journey… Elgin Falarom was a powerful man when I knew him in my youth, and if he has become as fey as Grimbold suggests, the danger—“
“Father, I’m nearly 20, and a graduate of one of the best chantries in Tolus,” Imrah interrupted impatiently. “I’m supposed to be out in the world, for at least the next year, learning to use my powers in real-life situations. This is exactly what I should be doing! And you know danger is always going to be a part of it!”
“I do know, son,” his father sighed. “In any case, it’s too late to second guess things at this point… but I still worry. As your father it’s in my job description. At least I’ll be around, along with a great many experienced folk, to keep you safe. Speaking of which, what do you think of our companions on this venture?”
Imrah wanted to pursue the issue of Father accepting his growth into adulthood, not to mention the assumption that he needed protecting… but realized there wasn’t much point. As infuriating as he found the old man’s lack of faith in his ability to protect himself, he supposed time and experience would eventually take care of it. At least he fervently hoped it would.
“They are certainly an interesting group,” he said instead. “I heard some amazing tales on the coach ride down to the coast. Did you know—“ He cut himself off, realizing the story of Erol’s death, even if it ultimately hadn’t, er, taken, was not a tale to reassure a worried parent. “—um, the story of how Ser Draik and Cantor Vulk developed that Baylorium of theirs?”
• • • • • • • •
It was early afternoon, in a light drizzle, when the Sea Witch arrived at Agate Cove, the small town (or maybe largish village) which served as Asdach’s only port. It didn’t take an experienced seaman’s eye, Aldor thought, to realize that something seemed off about the scene as the ship maneuvered toward the lone wooden pier jutting out into the small, pebble-bottomed cove that gave the place its name. The wet, cold weather could hardly explain the complete absence of any signs of life. Surely, even such a small place would have fishing boats, people on the dock or along the stoney beach, or moving about the streets? And why was there no smoke from even a single chimney of the score visible through the mists?
It was obvious that everyone, even the crew, felt the same sense of uneasiness. The captain conferred quietly with his Imperial passengers, and only reluctantly ordered his men to tie off the vessel and lower a gangplank to the pier. He might be in command, but Aldor knew his orders had put him and his ship at Lord Grimbold’s pleasure, and his old friend was not one to be deterred from his duty by a little strangeness… quite the opposite, actually.
The gangplank had just been set in place, and the party beginning to file off the ship, when a dozen haggard-looking people suddenly appeared from one of buildings nearest the dock. They moved slowly at first, peering around furtively, as if fearful of being seen; when they saw nothing to spook them, they rushed forward, onto the dock and out the pier toward the ship.
Captain Klemith immediately ordered his men to form a cordon along the side of the ship, as he stepped forward to meet the crowd. Aldor joined Grimbold, the Hand, and his son (much as he wished the lad would stay safely aboard the ship), as they followed the officer to form a small crowd of their own facing the presumed townsfolk. Even as the first group of… refugees, he couldn’t help thinking of them… came to a ragged stop in front of them, more stragglers began appearing from other nearby buildings and dashing dockward.
A middle-aged woman in the robes of a cantor of Liska, looking more than a little worried and exhausted, stepped forward from the growing crowd. She scanned the people before her, clearly trying to decide who was in charge. The captain took a step forward, and introduced himself, then demanded of the woman “What in the Void is going on here? Who are you people?”
“If it please you sir, I am Elena Karstan, cantor of Liska, and these good folk are all that are left of the citizens of this town… perhaps of the entire island. Please, I beg you captain, take us with you… take us and leave this accursed place now, do not linger! As you can see, there’s barely more than a score of us, surely you’ve room…”
“Room isn’t the issue,” Klemith growled, clearly not pleased by the idea of letting a mob of uncertain temperament and motives aboard his vessel. “In any case, these good people have come to sort out whatever it is plaguing your island.” He gestured at Grimbold and the others. “We’ll want to know much more before there’s any talk of leaving.”
“Yes, we’re here to help you,” Vulk said, his tone soothing and calm. Aldor was not surprised Grimbold had let the Kasiran take the lead – he clearly trusted the Hand, and Vulk was a herald, after all. “I am a cantor of Kasira, and these others are my associates…” He quickly introduced the Hand, Grimbold, and the Halems. “Are you the senior cleric on the island, cantor Kastan?”
“No, or, at least I wasn’t… although I seem to be now, I suppose, since cantor Lisbeta and Mayor Heshkar vanished half a tenday ago… they went inland, looking for more survivors… they never returned, and everyone has been looking to me for guidance sincerer … I…” She seemed on the brink of hysteria, Aldor thought.
“I understand,” Vulk reassured her, giving her a moment to take a deep breath and gather herself. “Can you tell us what, exactly has been going on? Start at the beginning, and try to include anything that might be relevant… I promise you, we’ll get it all sorted out, whatever the situation.”
The woman looked dubious, but nodded, took another deep breath, and began her tale. Almost three months ago people began vanishing. At first it was only a few, and was simply put down to the usual things – accident, misfortune or simply failing to tell others they were leaving. But then remote farmsteads began to be found abandoned, and closer farms began reporting people simply vanishing while out on errands.
A month ago, the disappearances were becoming almost daily and whole households– family, servants, even guests– would vanish overnight. Around this time some islanders reported glimpses from afar of stange, moss-covered humanoid shapes moving amongst the trees… and a purple-skinned man with violet hair. But if anyone ever got close enough to learn more about these apparitions, they never returned to report on it.
The Mayor began sending messages to neighboring Momor Island, describing the crisis and begging for help. A ship dropped off a squad of Imperial troops four days later. They were quite confident (and more than a little dismissive, the cantor added with a grimace). They headed inland the day they arrived… and haven’t been seen since.
When families in Agate Cove (the largest community on the island, with 387 souls at the last Imperial Census) began to vanish in the night, real panic began to spread. Many people fled, climbing aboard every fishing boat that would carry them. Several of the boats even made multiple trips back but, as the disappearances grew more frequent — occurring even in broad daylight — the boats stopped coming. The people who had been reluctant to leave their homes at first were now trapped.
“When the reports about the sightings of a purple man reached me,” Cantor Elena sighed, “I began to realize that the beginning of all of this might be much earlier than the disappearances. I think it must be related, somehow, to the stange purple-skinned, violet-haired man, with his crazy violet eyes, who showed up on the island about three years ago. He’d passed through town back then, staying only a few days before vanishing into the swamps… to everyone’s relief, I must admit. He was a very.. intense individual, as I recall. When nothing more was heard of him, it was assumed that he had been lost and was dead in the marshlands – a ten day wonder, eventually forgotten.
“My suspicions were confirmed when, four days ago, a beautiful, silver-haired woman arrived in a small skiff, which she’d piloted here by herself. I think she must be Aunari, although she didn’t say as much. She said she’d had word of our plight, and had come to lend what aid she could. Unfortunately, that very first night in town, while she listened to our sad tale, several of the more desperate islanders stole her ship!”
This theft seemed a great embarrassment to Cantor Elena, on behalf of her flock. Glancing at the ragged group behind her, Aldor had the distinct impression that not a few of them were wishing that they’d thought of stealing the boat first.
“Despite this outrage, the Lady Flaricia, as she named herself, promised she would look into the matter. That actually gave me a feeling of relief – she seemed so serenely confident, but without the arrogance of the soldiers. She was particularly interested in what I could tell her of the strange purple man. She seemed to have some knowledge of him, although she didn’t elaborate, at least not to me.”
The cantor’s face, briefly animated, fell into grimness again. “But the next morning, after a night of meditation, I think, she’ headed off toward the swamps, and we’ve had no word from her in two days, now. I fear she has met whatever fate has overtaken so many others.”
Mariala and Vulk exchanged glances – both had been subtly using spell and ritual to determine the veracity of the woman’s story, and by their small nods both agreed she spoke the truth, at least as she understood it. Vulk smiled in reassurance as Grimbold stepped forward.
“I know Lady Flaricia of old, my dear cantor,” he said, “and I have no doubt that she is thick in the midst of whatever is going on here… and has it well in hand. We have come at her summons, actually, and you may be confident that between us we shall get to the bottom of it all.”
“I truly hope that you do, Lord Grimbold,” the clearly exhausted woman replied, “and I hope we can all return to our homes to find our loved ones waiting for us… but right now all any of these people want is to get off this island! Will you not let us board?”
A three-sided scrum ensued, between the captain, those of the Hand who didn’t want to lose the ship should the party themselves need to evacuate, and those who were confident the ship could ferry the survivors to safety and be back in a matter of hours. The townsfolk, who were increasingly anxious to be gone, could only wait as their fate was debated. In the end, it was Vulk’s eloquent argument on behalf of the islanders that carried the day, and Captain Klemith agreed to take the 27 townspeople to the nearby island of Momor, and then return to drop anchor — well off shore — and await the return of Lord Grimbold’s party.
Even before the Sea Witch sailed, with its supercargo of grateful people safely aboard, the party had set out for the ruined temple on the edges of the marshland, which had seemed to Cantor Elena to be the most likely center of the trouble. The rain had let up as the nine left Agate Cove behind, but the day remained a cool and foggy one… not a great day for a walk through the woods, Aldor thought. He’d asked about horses, but there were few on island save for farmers’ plow horses, and even fewer in the small town itself. If they couldn’t all ride, there was no point… and he hid a smile at his son’s obvious relief. The lad’s allergy to the beasts made horseback travel unpleasant for him, although he always manfully made the best of it when it couldn’t be avoided.
It was some six kilometers to the ruins, and for the last two the party had to leave the road and follow a narrow track as the light woodland faded to a mere scattering of trees and the ground grew increasingly marshy. The mists grew thicker as they approached the edge of the true swamp, which had slowly been claiming the ruins of the old Eldaran temple, abandoned centuries ago. A drifting fog shrouded the wrecked building as they approached, softening its jagged features and muffling sound in disturbing ways.
As soon as the ancient tower came into sight, the group moved more cautiously, scouting for guards, or any sign of life or movement. Aldor could see that the western foundations of the main structure are already underwater, and much of that section of the building’s roof and walls had collapsed into ruin. The western portico appeared to be still roofed, and several still-standing pillars held up portions of the main roof to the northeast, but most of the old temple was open to the air. He scanned the standing parts of the old holy site carefully, but saw no sign of sentries…
A three-story tower anchored the eastern end of the ruin, and appeared to be in marginally better condition than the main structure. Much of the dark gray slate roof had collapsed, true, as had portions of the third floor walls, but it nonetheless looked as if the interior remained structurally sound… maybe. It would, in any case, be the likeliest place to encounter any inhabitants the paladin thought.
As it turned out, it was from the more sheltered parts of the main ruin that danger came on them, when the companions were almost at the first rank of tumbled walls on the south side of the old temple. Several figures lurched out of the swirling fog, climbing from behind piles of fallen stone or coming around the massive alter-like structure looming at the center of the site. Most of them, Aldor saw with horror as their features became clearer, were very obviously no longer human! Reaching over his shoulder he drew his holy sword and muttered a prayer to Cael as he ran forward…
Grimbold was just as horrified as his friend when he could make out what was rushing them – while two looked like normal Umantari… no, the girl looked Umantari, but surely that male must be Telnori… the rest of the creatures appeared to be humanoid-shaped collections of mobile fungus! Even as he leapt atop the rubble of a collapsed wall to gain the higher ground, he could see by their clothing that these creatures must also have once been people – no doubt some of the missing islanders. But what horrible infection could have brought them to this state? No flicker of intelligence could he see in those dead, fungal eyes. Then there was no time for thought, only fighting…
Grimbold hurled two taburi at the nearest of the fungus zombies, hitting it in both thorax and abdomen… but the blades hardly seemed to slow the thing down. He pulled his gray battle axe, Girhündal, from his back and awaited the creature’s charge…
To Grimbold’s left, Aldor was already dashing forward to meet another of the fungus things, glancing back toward his son as he did. “Imrah, cast a spell of Resistance on yourself! ” he called. Then he was swinging Xalavado, the Flame of Aranda, in a great arc. Its blade glowing with the silver-blue light of the Greater Moon, it sent the head of the first of the fungus zombies spinning off into the fog.
Focused on the fight now, Aldor failed to note the annoyed grimace on his son’s face as he completed the spell he’d already been in the middle of casting… nor did he see Imrah’s smile as the glimmer of protection flared strongly about him, a perfect Form and a perfect result!
Mariala, however, caught the by-play and smiled in secret sympathy as she cast her own Resistance spell on herself. Lord Aldor was certainly a striking man – the hints of silver in his chestnut hair only accentuated his obvious virility. The man did seem oblivious to his son’s emotional state, though. She was diverted from considering how she might facilitate a conversation between the two by Devrik rushing past her, drawing his great blade… and then slowing to a stop.
“Wait, some of these seem like normal people,” he ground out. “Are we sure—“
He was cut off by Toran sending a crossbow bolt into one of the hideous fungus zombies as it lunged forward. The bolt passed clean through a twisted, grasping hand and drove on into its skull, which seemed to kill it. It went down, anyway, and stopped moving. Eventually. At least it was one of the obviously monstrous creatures, Devrik thought, not like the Umantari girl or the Telnori man… although the clothes the thing wore did concern him a bit.
He was also more than a little annoyed at the Caelan paladin and his obviously over-compensating battle sword, with its gaudy silver glow. They already had his own flaming holy sword, after all… this just seemed like overkill. And weren’t paladins supposed to concerned about all life or something? The man had certainly had gone in swinging… with what Devrik grudgingly had to admit was a pretty spectacular decapitation.
Erol, at least, seemed to heed his words of caution, using his shock net to ensnare the young girl – clearly a thrall to some outside force, Devrik thought. Although she wasn’t felled by the “elec-tric-ity” running through her, merely staggered. So maybe not entirely normal? As she struggled to free herself Devrik saw several more of the shambling horrors approaching from around the central alter… damn, they were in danger of being outnumbered!
The twisted, distorted fungal features of this group, despite their ragged clothes, convinced Devrik they were probably too far gone to save, and in any case too dangerous to live. He cast an Orb of Vorol into the midst of the pack, and the yellow-white seed exploded into a ball of searing orange flame, engulfing four of the creatures.
To Devrik’s disgust, only one of them was actually immolated by the blast, collapsing to writhe on the stones with high-pitched shrieks that were decidedly inhuman. The others were momentarily staggered, but no more. Only singed, they quickly began staggering forward again, ignoring still smoking “flesh” and clothing.
“Damn wet zombies!” he grated out as Vulk moved to join him. “Between their damp hides and wet skin, and this cursed moist air, my fire seems at a disadvantage…”
“All the more reason you’ll need this, then,” the cantor said, laying his hands on his friend’s shoulders and murmuring an invocation to Kasira. Almost instantly the faint golden glow of Her protection sprang up around Devrik, and he felt the warmth of Her hand held over him. With a nod of thanks to Vulk, he leaped over the remains of a crumbled wall to face the Telnori thrall before that maniac paladin could kill him…
Meanwhile, one of the still-smoldering fungal zombies lunged at Toran, it’s claw-like fingers rippling in a very disturbing manner, the Khundari thought. He dodged the clumsy attack, and swung his battleaxe Ergonkïr around to sever the creature’s left leg. It staggered forward, going down without a sound… and then continued to claw its way forward, its face strangely devoid of any expression. A second swing of Ergonkïr clove its skull, but Toran was horrified to see, not blood or brains, but writhing tendrils of fungus, that only slowly grew still.
At the same time Aldor was also noticing the strange lack of emotion from the creatures, as he counter-struck another one, severing its right leg mid-thigh. Even as it began to collapse, he brought his holy sword up and around to drive the blade through its head — and the thing never made a sound nor showed any sign of anger, fear, pain… it just fell, writhed for a moment, and then stilled.
Turning away in disgust, Aldor saw Ser Devrik moving swiftly past him to engage the still human- well, Telnori-looking man that had been coming up on his left. Still looking like whatever he’d been before this calamity had taken him (a scribe or scholar by the looks of his now ragged robes, Aldor guessed), the man wielded a ball & chain mace. It swung clumsily at the short, muscular red-headed warrior-mage, who ducked under it easily. Devrik turned the duck into an attack of his own, which neatly disarmed his opponent.
Ah, he is fighting to subdue with his flaming blade, not kill, Aldor realized, and approved. Whatever was driving the still normal-seeming folk to attack them, in the company of such obvious monsters, perhaps it could be reversed or ended. Best not to kill those, if they could avoid it— his thought was cut off as another of the fungal horrors lunged at him from behind. He wheeled and with a spinning kick sent the creature flying out of the temple – to land almost at the feet of his son! Dismayed, he leaped forward with a cry of warning…
Imrah stumbled back at the sudden appearance of the twitching monster in front of him, but didn’t panic. This was his chance to show his father what he was capable of! He raised one hand, and focused his inner eye, calling the Form into being… but as he prepared to pour the cool energies of his Principle into it, he saw the flaw. So small… but the Ice Needle of Burkon was too dangerous a spell to take chances with… he aborted, but the energies fought him, draining his reserves….
Toran, seeing the young journeyman mage hesitate, realized what must be happening. He leaped from the pile of stones he’d retreated to, Ergonkïr raised over his head, and brought the battleaxe down on the fungal horror’s head, splitting it in two. The creature fell without a sound, and an embarrassed Imrah nodded his thanks to the Khundari Shadow Warrior, who was already moving to support Grimbold.
And damnit, his father had seen the whole humiliating thing…
Oblivious to the younger man’s inner turmoil, Toran quickly attacked the fungus zombies to the left of Devrik, while Erol speared another to his right. This gave Devrik space to attempt a casting of Dispel on the Telnori thrall he was engaged with. But despite a solid casting, there appeared no change in the man, and Devrik cursed.
“By the Void, how do we handle these enthralled bastards,” he growled in frustration.
“Death?” Toran replied, cutting down his own opponent with a blow that nearly severed its head.
“Really? Would you kill someone with a cold?” Devrik objected, dodging the clumsy attempts of the thrall to grab him, still trying not to kill the poor bastard.
“A severe cold that turned them into ravening monsters and made them want to kill everyone around them? Probably,” his Khundari friend shrugged, wiping his battleaxe on the mossy ground.
“But damnit, what if it’s curable?” The fire mage demanded, using the flat of his still-flaming sword to drive back the Telnori.
“Even if it proves so, eventually, you cant stop a plague without burning a few carriers,” Erol offered, deftly avoiding the ball & chain mace of his own opponent and counter-striking to drive his trident through its chest, pinning it to the pillar behind . “Do we really want to risk this shit, whatever it turns out to be, spreading?” he added, plunging his dagger into the thing’s skull to finish it off.
“I don’t think there’s saving any of these people, Devrik,” Mariala called from where she and Vulk stood near the enthralled girl, still struggling in Erol’s net. “I attempted to enter this one’s mind, hoping to engage whatever is controlling her in mental combat and thereby free her. But, while I sensed some small part of the girl still remains, something very strong, and very alien, is inextricably intertwined with the fragments of her personality… and it is dominant! I don’t think—“
She was cut off as the girl shrugged free of the entangling net and lunged at her with a rusty dagger pulled from her girdle. Vulk leaped between the two of them, and deftly blocked the blow with the Staff of Summer, sending the girl stumbling backward. He aimed the Staff at her and spoke the word to trigger its Weaver’s Web spell. But even as the power began to flow he sensed something interfere with it – it was like a spike being driven through the clean lines of the artifact’s perfect Form! The energy flared suddenly, out of control and wild. Instead of glowing white strands reaching out to ensnare the girl, a mass of sticky white energy engulfed Vulk, leaving him trapped and immobile, like a fly in milky amber.
“Get down, all of you!” Devrik cried out a warning, pointing to the top of the ancient tower. As he struggled to stay upright Vulk turned his head just in time to see a flash of purple skin and hair between crumbled sections of wall — and then a cone of flame was roaring down at them. Most of the others hit the ground, but Vulk was again engulfed, this time in flames.
Fortunately, his amulet of Protection from Fire activated, leaving him unscathed even as the very flammable stuff of the misfired spell flared up around him and then evaporated, freeing him. The others had hit the ground in time to let most of the flames, already at their maximum range, wash over them with little more than singed clothes and hair.
The fungal zombies near the group didn’t fare quite so well, the one that looked like a young maiden taking the brunt of the spell — she went up like a torch. The older Telnori was scorched but still functional, and took the opportunity of Devrik’s distraction to turn and lunge at Aldor, drawing a curved dagger from its fraying robes.
Aldor, himself distracted by the Breath of Zhone spell cast by his one-time friend, swung Xalabon at the onrushing thrall, but the glowing blade went wide and the creature slipped past to drive its dagger into the paladin’s left thigh. With a grunt of pain, Aldor staggered and fell to one knee… the creature drew back its blade to strike at his exposed neck…
Two things happened almost simultaneously.
Imrah, seeing his father’s peril, instinctively called on his power to cast Effluvium, hoping to knock the attacker away with a powerful blast of elemental water. Unfortunately there was no time to check the Form, and the spell misfired, a great gout of water exploding upward from the nearest pool of stagnant swamp water. Coming down again, it drenched everyone for ten meters around.
At the same instant Erol leaped over a pile of fallen wall stones, plunging his trident into the thrall’s exposed back with his full strength. One of the tines severed the thing’s spine — apparently the more human ones still had fairly human anatomy — and it died instantly. The ex-gladiator noted, with some relief, that it wasn’t blood that seeped from its wounds, but some pink-tinged ichor-like substance. Which seemed to lay to rest Devrik’s idea that the poor sods could be saved.
Aldor barely had time to pull himself up and give a grateful salute to the quasi-Telnori warrior before Devrik was lunging forward, hands outstretched and a deperate “NO!” ripped from his damaged throat. The paladin saw a small, bright light arcing down towards the too-tightly packed group — he recognized the seed for a fireball spell all too well. His leg almost gave out again as he threw himself toward his son, praying to Cael that his own body might spare the boy the worst of the flames.
But instead of blossoming into a lethal ball of fire, the tiny seed flame flickered and dimmed at Devrik’s gesture. When it exploded, little more than a wall of warmth swept over the group as a gout of orange-red flame shot up into the sky, apparently at the command of Ser Devrik. The flames exploded overhead, making a spectacular fireworks display… Aldor was impressed. He’d known the man was a fire mage, but hadn’t any idea that he was also a pyrokinetic… a useful talent, he supposed, in his chosen art!
While most of the others gathered around a shaken-looking Devrik, Grimbold saw one of the last of the remaining fungus zombies turn and run for the entry to the old tower. So, the things can move quite quickly if they’re motivated, he thought. With a shout to Toran, who stood nearest him, the Khundari took off after the creature — no doubt it was returning to its master, and Grimbold wanted a word with his former friend sooner rather than later.
After dispatching the last two smoldering fungus zombies, the rest of the group followed the two Khundari, Vulk taking only a moment to staunch and bind Aldor’s wounded leg. More lasting healing would have to wait, they both understood, as long as the immediate threat of the Purple Druid loomed over them.
The curving stairway along the north wall of the tower was in passable condition.. any rubble from the partially collapsed floor above seemed to have been cleared away to make a path. Enough of that second floor remained intact as well, along the eastern side of the tower, to give them another clear path to the next staircase on the south wall.
Alcoves lined the upper third of the interior walls, or at least the sections still standing, each one with a statue… ancient representations of the Immortals, Imrah suspected in passing. Their time-ravaged faces, worn smooth and pitted by the centuries, stared down on the interlopers, and gave the young mage an intense feeling of unease… and somehow the one empty alcove was even more unnerving!
The walls and most of the roof was gone from the third floor, with only the section to the south to southeast still covered by timbers and dark gray slate. But the fact barely registered with Imrah — along with the others, including his father, he gaped at the piles of glittering gold, chests full of sparkling gemstones, and scattered jeweled rods and tiaras which covered what remained of the flagstone floor.
Standing amidst all this treasure was the imposing figure of the Purple Druid himself! He was tall, Imrah noticed, almost as tall as his father perhaps, and looked in remarkably good physical shape for a man who must be in his seventies. If you ignored the purple skin, lavender hair, and penetrating violet eyes, of course. The five hideous fungus zombies arrayed around the space barely registered in the presence of their master.
“So, my old friends,” he spoke in a deep, resonate tone that failed to mask his sneer. “I see you’ve brought a pack of young minions to help you steal my hard-earned treasures! Well, it shall not happen, I promise you!”
“Well, at least their minions are better looking than your minions!” Devrik muttered. Aldor shot him a quelling look, then stepped forward to address his old friend.
“Elgin, you must know that we are not here to rob you. We only want to know what has happened to our friend. What have you done to these people? And why? You were a good man once, even a great one… it’s not too late to undo what’s been done here, if you’ll just let us help you.”
“And what would your Immortal Patroness, Drina, say to all of this,” Grimbold added. “Surely She does not condone what you’re doing, Elgin, the extremes to which you’ve gone in Her name?”
The mention of Drina was perhaps a mistake, Grimbold realized when the Druid’s face twisted with rage. Maybe Aldor could’ve gotten through to him if he’d just kept quiet…
“Drina,” he sneered, and his violet eyes seemed to blaze. “She abandoned us long ago, for she was weak and irresolute, even if Immortal. She refused to do what needed to be done to remove the infestation of mankind, in all its varieties, from this world, to return it to its pristine state. But I shall not fail in that holy task!” He gestured, and his five remaining minions moved in to attack.
Erol was the first to react, leveling his trident and channeling the power of the Burning Shaft through it. A searing beam of light lanced out to strike the nearest fungal horror square in the chest, burning a hole clean through it. He could briefly see daylight through the smoking circle before the creature collapsed, twitched, and died.
Aldor drew Xalabon from the sheath on his back, the silver-blue light shining from its blade as he drove the holy sword through the monster’s gut. Despite which, the thing somehow managed to claw its way up the impaling blade to counterattack, leaving a dagger embedded in the paladin’s right thigh. Even as the pain drove him down again to one knee, Aldor ripped his sword up and through the creature’s torso, cleaving it in half from the waist up. It fell to either side, the fungal mass within writhing briefly before going still.
Toran, meanwhile, attempted to cast Stavin’s Arrows at the Purple Druid, only to suffer the same sense of interference others had encountered. His Form fractured, and he was blown backward by the concussive force of the misfire! Only his Shadow Warrior training managed to keep him on his feet, if bent over and gasping for breath. Before he could fully recover he saw their enemy gesture…
A blast of blue-white elemental cold, which he recognized from their time with Korwin as the Breath of Arandu, sprang forth from the druids hands. Three of the group were caught in the cone of freezing magic – Grimbold’s left leg was anchored in a block of ice to the pavement, but Aldor’s holy sword, raised in defense, somehow split the magical energy around him, leaving the paladin unscathed. The diverted cold caught Draik obliquely, but he seemed to suffer no more than a chill, Toran saw before he himself was engulfed. His own right foot was as frozen to the stone as Grimold’s left he realized as the intense cold dropped him into darkness.
Just outside the cone of terrible cold, Imrah tried, once again, to cast the Ice Needle of Burkon, only to, once again, feel the alien interference shattering his Form. It took considerable, tiring effort for him to abort the spell safely, but thank the Immortals he succeeded in the end.
Devrik fared no better a moment later when he tried to cast Ariel’s Fiery Ribbons. He too felt an outside presence driving a magical spike, as it were, through his Form, forcing him to abort his casting. But experience allowed him to do so without fatiguing himself… and he had no trouble sensing whence came the disruption. It was very certainly that purple bastard!
While Devrik was aborting his own spell, Mariala was having better luck with her Fire Nerves. The Purple Druid failed to block her magics, whether because he hadn’t sensed them or simply couldn’t handle four spells almost simultaneously. He staggered back a step as the spell hit him… but no more than a step, and seemed unaffected by any pain. She did notice, queasily, that his flesh beneath the purple skin momentarily writhed, as if worms burrowed there.
His spell deflected, Devrik drew his own holy blade to block a clawed attack by another of the fungal minions. Naturally, he counter-struck, and cut the creature in half at the waist! The top part of the body still tried to claw at him, even as it toppled to the floor. Both halves writhed disturbingly for a moment before stilling.
Despite being pinned by the ice to the floor, Grimbold parried a ball & chain mace attack from another fungus zombie and seized the initiative. His battleaxe caved in the attackers chest, sending the thing staggering backward. Devrik, now aware of their enemy’s ability to disrupt spells and prepared for it, again cast Arkel’s Fiery Ribbons. The rainbow-hued sheets of flame immolated the zombie’s head, and with a spinning kick he sent it stumbling over the edge of the shattered floor, to plummet three floors to the ground where it burst like a melon into flaming bits!
After dispatching the first fungal horror Erol had taken a moment to focus and send himself into his extratemporal state of hyper awareness and speed. He felt the shift in his perceptions as the world seemed to slow down around him, and hurled his trident at the one remaining zombie, pinning its head to the wall. He then immediately cast Handor’s Flash at the Purple Druid, only to blind himself instead when the spell misfired. He staggered back, clutching his head and hoping the misfire hadn’t affected any of his companions.
Aldor, meanwhile, had regained his feet, although blood streamed down both thighs now. When the Lady Mariala’s spell had hit his old friend, he’d seen the writing shapes beneath Elgin’s skin, and realized with dismay that, if this was truly him, his friend was beyond saving. This saddened him, but he was never one to balk at the hard choices in battle. He poured everything he had into a lightning strike, praying to Cael to make the end merciful. It was a brilliant maneuver, and should have decapitated his foe – but the purple form moved with a shocking speed of its own, ducking below the swing. A few strands of lavender hair were all the blade managed to part from their owner.
As the Purple Druid straightened Imrah, having given up on magic for the moment, threw his own taburi at their foe. But the bastard’s preternatural reflexes again saved him, his head tilting to one side just enough for the blade to miss, if only narrowly. So close, curse it!
Glaring at Aldor, the Purple Druid’s right hand began to glow with a strange black light as he summoned the Fist of Kuhan. With a snarl he punched his now stone-like fist at the paladin’s chest, intending to cave it in and end the fight. But Aldor dodged the blow and counter-struck. Ducking in under Elgin’s guard, he drove Xalabon clean through his one-time friend. The surpised druid had no time to react before Aldor ripped the glowing blade upward, splitting his upper body in half from sternum to crown.
The corpse fell to the floor, and it was almost with relief that Aldor saw it had no internal organs, none at all – only writhing masses of fungal fibers, in myriad shades of purple, seemed to have been animating the body. As the twisting tendrils slowed and eventually stopped, every piece of treasure scattered across the tower chamber paled, wavered, and then vanished. It had all been an illusion, if a powerful one…
In the sudden silence the group stared at one another. “Was that it?” Draik said, staring around at the now mostly empty space. “That seemed remarkably quick for a boss fight…”
“I’m not sure it was a, what did you call it? A ‘boss fight’?” Aldor said thoughtfully, half collapsing onto a pile of rubble (which a moment earlier had looked like a large iron-bound chest). He grimaced as he probed gingerly at his latest wound. “Did you notice that all the other, um, creatures, even the most disfigured and distorted by the fungus, still had many humanoid features – organs, even if infused with the alien growth, bones, a spine? This,” he nodded at the nearby purple corpse, “seems to have been animated entirely by fungal growth. I see no evidence that it was ever Umantari, as Elgin was.”
Draik had knelt by the body and was studying it intently without actually touching it. “I have to agree with Lord Aldor,” he said absently, poking at what should have been brains with his dagger. “This appears to be a construct, made entirely of whatever this stuff is… which, by the way, isn’t really a fungus. At least not any fungus I’ve ever seen or heard of.”
“What is it, then?” Devrik growled, wiping down his sword before re-sheathing it on his back.
“I’m not at all sure,” Draik replied as he stood up and stepped away from the purple corpse. “I’d have to do a much deeper examination, of as many of these corpses as possible, to even begin to understand what we have here. Still, it does seem to have many similarities to Novendian fungi, as well as significant differences… I wonder…” He shrugged off his pack and began rummaging in its contents.
“Well, until you give us something else to call them, I’ll stick with “fungus zombie,” if you don’t mind,” Devrik said. “Also, should we burn these things? Are they infectious, do you think?”
“They don’t seem to be, at least not easily; but yes, probably safest to burn them,” a distracted Draik agreed, pulling several empty vials from his pack. “But let me get samples from as many as possible first.”
Devrik grunted acknowledgment and moved to use his pyrokinesis to melt the ice holding both Grimbold and Toran bound to the flagstone floor. Vulk was already kneeling over Toran and chanting his invocation of Thalia’s Surcease to revive and heal their friend. While Mariala carefully assisted Draik in extracting tissue samples Vulk moved on to lend his healing skills, and small doses of Baylorium, to both Aldor and Grimbold.
Erol followed after Draik and Mariala, dragging away each corpse as they finished with it to pile them all in the largest open space available. Once they were done, and everyone else was healed and upright once more, Devrik tossed a small burning brand onto the corpses, then stared intently it for a moment. The flickering flame burst suddeenly into roaring life and began to consume the bodies. In the face of an indescribably vile stench, they lingered only long enough to be sure the immolation was fully underway before retreating back down the stairs.
Back on the ground floor of the temple, the group repeated the process with the corpses there. Draik was particularly careful to get samples from the two “thrall” specimens (although the charred girl was admittedly a bit of a challenge). They took care to drag the bodies far enough from the ruined temple to remain unaffected by the smoke and smell, as they took a few minutes therein to rest and regroup.
“Whether that thing up there was really Elgin, or merely a simulacrum of some sort, given the number of missing people there must be many more of those fungus zombies around,” Grimbold pointed out. “Plus, we still have to find Flaricia… and pray to Gheas that she hasn’t been infected like the islanders.”
“Which means,” Mariala sighed, eyeing the twin staircases in the eastern section of the temple with distaste, “that we have to go down.” No one disagreed. “And maybe the fungus zombies have killed all the rats,” she muttered to herself as everyone geared up and prepared to descend.
The undercroft of the ruined temple proved to be less dire than Mariala had feared, however. Unlike the surface structures, it appeared mostly intact, if damp and moldy. Algea-streaked water trickled down the ancient stone walls, especially in the western half, but the ceiling was quite high, avoiding much of a sense of claustrophobia. There was also some movement of air, and once Vulk invoked Kasira’s Sight the darkness vanished in the featureless gray pseudo-light of Her blessing.
Six pillars, three north and three south, upheld the triple-groined ceiling, and between them a large rectangular plinth of stained white marble dominated the center of the space. Atop the plinth two figures seemed to oppose one another – the figure to the south was carved from white marble, and was a serene-looking woman with great feathered wings; the northern figure was an armored man with raised sword, carved of gleaming black marble. The whole thing sat in the middle of five alcoves ranged on the nothern, western, and southern walls.
The largest alcove was in the western wall, a marble alter berfore it, and within which had stood two statues, one male and one female. Only the male remained intact, however, the other having fallen with the shifting of the foundations; it lay now in moss-covered pieces. Of the four smaller alcoves, two in the north wall and two in the south, three had single statues with their own low alters set before them. The alcove in the northwest was different – it lacked an alter, was flanked by stange, crudely carved dog-like figures, and had no statue, nor even a pedestal. The back wall of the niche appeared to have been knocked out to reveal, or perhaps to create, a corridor extending to the north.
“I think these statues must have represented Agara and Arial,” Vulk said after examine the larger alcove and both figures, whole and broken. “Although these are very antique representations of the King and Queen of the Immortals… some of this symbolism hasn’t been used in 500 years!”
“And I think these two must be Shala and her brother Tanar,” Mariala called out, standing before the alcoves in the south wall. “But you’re right, I’ve never seen some of this icoography before…” She glanced across the chamber to where Aldor was on one knee before the lone alter and statue on the north wall, hands clasped on the hilt of his sword and head bowed. “And I’m going to go out on a limb and assume that one must be a representation of Cael.”
“It is,” Imrah agreed, trying not to be too embarrassed by his father’s ostentacious display of piety. “ Which I’m guessing would mean this empty and altered niche must have once held the likeness of Zelist, Immortal Patron of the Lesser Moon. Since her Cult was removed from the Eldaran Church in something like the 10th centry, that makes this place very old!”
“Yes, it would predate the founding of the Empire, actually” Grimbold said. “And I’d say the age and style of this stonework is in accord with that supposition.”
“But surely this section was build first,” Toran put in. “I’m not as familiar as you with Oceanian architecture, but the style and age of the work down here seems significantly older to me than that of the surface structures… and of better quality.”
Before the two Khundari could descend into a deep analysis of stonework and architecture a call from Erol drew their attention to the eastern end of the chamber. His vision still recovering, he had followed Devrik and Draik into a smaller room connected to the larger by a short hallway, and had apparently found something of interest. While the others wandered over to see what it might be, Mariala and Imrah decided to check out the passageway beyond the last aclove.
Less than seven meters long, it had clearly been constructed much later than the rest of the building, and by craftsman of decidedly inferior skills, using low-quality material. It slanted somewhat drunkenly to the northwest, and ended in a wide and seemingly bottomless pit. Even with Immortal-blessed sight they couldn’t see an end to it.
“That’s quite a shaft,” Mariala excalimed, perring cautiously over the edge.
“Mmm, seems more yonic than phallic to me,” Imrah observed, deadpan. Mariala choked back a laugh and considered the younger man beside her. She could see much of his father in him, if less formed and refined by time, but suspected his sense of humor came from his mother.
“Yes, well, in any case it’s a dead end,” she sighed. “I suppose we’d best go see what the others have found, yes?”
• • • • •
What the others had found was a rectangular chamber maybe 6 meters wide and 12 meters long. A shallow, wide niche was inset into the east wall, opposite the entrance, in which stood two granite statues. No one was sure who these figures represented, but between them sat a rather large chest of pale green wood, bound in brass. At each end of the room a low alter was set, and on each rested elaborately carved stone reliquaries.
In the center of the room, at just above head height, hung a clear crystal phial, suspended by thin wires between three thin rods of metal depending from the ceiling. The rods were tinted in three different colors: red, green, and blue. But what was really odd was the beam of yellow light being emitted from a large, faceted crystal set in the wall above the entrance door. I shone down at an angle, passing through the clear phial, which spread and diffused it to shine on the mysterious chest opposite.
Ot it would have shone on the chest, if Toran wasn’t crouched in front of it, blocking the beam. He was muttering to himself in some irritation when Mariala and Imrah arrived. After another minute he rose, tucking his magical lock-opening amulet back into his scrip and shook his head.
“There’s magic involved here, no doubt,” he growled. “I know I did a flawless job on that lock with my tools – it’s not a very complex lock – but it wouldn’t open. Now my amulet, which can open even the most complex mundane lock, has failed as well. Some stronger magic protects this chest!”
“Maybe these have something to do with it,” Draik suggested. He stood before the northern of the room’s two alters and had pulled open the doors to its reliquary. Unlike the reliquaries on the alters in the main chamber, which had long ago been emptied of whatever relics they’d one held, this one held five glass spheres. Each was flat bottomed, with short cylindrical necks stoppered by a cork, and contained a transparent liquid in one of five colors: red, yellow, green, blue, and brown.
Aldor, standing near the souther alter, opened that reliquary as well, revealing another five glass spheres. The liquids in these five containers were magenta, purple, teal, orange, and cyan. There ensued a debate of some minutes as the companions tried to figure out their next move. It seemed obvious that they must pour one of the colored liquids into the empty phial, thereby changing the color of the yellow light as it passed through. But which color was needed? And were there consequences for choosing poorly?
In the end, Mariala and Aldor’s argument for simplicity won the day, and the paladin poured the blue liquid into the crystal phial. The light turned green, and on striking the chest, an audible click could be heard. Toran cautiously lifted the lid of the green chest… and nothing happened. Inside the chest were eleven identical bracelet’s, and nothing more.
“Oh, that reminds me,” Toran said suddenly, looking slightly embarrassed. He reached into his scrip and pulled out an identical bracelet. “I found this when I was dragging that charred thrall girl to the corpse pile… it slid off her wrist when… well, when her whole hand popped off. It had seemed out of place on her, and I meant to mention it earlier, but in all the excitement…”
“So, they must have some connection to all this,” Grimbold said, taking the offered object form Toran. “It seems unlikely to be a coincidence. But why was only the girl wearing one? What are they for?”
Another debate ensued, until Vulk and Imrah each took a bracelet and slipped them onto their wrists, over the protest of some of their companions, especially Aldor. The paladin was furious with his son for taking such a foolish risk, but his anger was somewhat mollified when, through trial and error, the two pioneers solved the mystery. Turning the silvery of the two bands of metal one way, and you rose slowly into the air, the further you turned the faster you rose. Turn the coppery band the other way, and you fell at similarly controlled rates.
As Imrah sank back to the floor he turned sharply to the Lady Mariala, who had the same look of sudden enlightenment on her face “The bottomless pit!” they exclaimed at the same time.
In the end, to Imrah’s vast annoyance, it was his father, not he, who joined Cantor Vulk and Lady Mariala in the reconnaissance down the mysterious hole…. to find who knew what at the bottom…
