Book XVIII: Isle of the Abbey

 

It was too soon to say if the deadlock on Saltmarsh Council had finally been broken, but there was no time left to us for waiting.   We still sought any portal to dread Tharizdun and a new quarry had been flushed from cover;  a ruined Abbey on an isle a few miles from the coast.  Raided and burnt by pirates last year and left in ruins, yet passing ships had seen lights still flickering amid the toppled walls.  Once those acolytes had worshipped fickle Procan, god of  deep waters, but were honours paid to a different deity now?   We had only one means of learning the truth.

“The Isle of the Abbey.  Barely two miles long and a mile across at its widest point.” 

Saltmarsh Watch Captain Eliander Fireborn kept his briefing brusque and to the point.  “The old Abbey of Procan lies dead centre. You see the reefs all around the coast?   Yes, there is only one possible place to land, the sandy beach at the southernmost point.   You need to seek this evil portal.  We also need you to reconnoitre for any sign those ‘gallant’ Brethren of the Coast are planning to return.   And they dare to call themselves Princes!”

Captain Fireborn was not a man accustomed to revealing his deepest feelings, but the shock of so nearly losing his only child had clearly affected him deeply.  He had insisted on paying 500 gold pieces to each of us as his own contribution towards the cost of those Raise Dead spells cast in Seaton.  Poor man, I think this was almost all the savings he had made towards his old age, but Eliander Fireborn was not a man to be gainsaid.  We certainly had no time to argue or debate if we were still to reach this island Abbey.    Word was coming, we were sure of that by now, new orders to investigate the far off Dwarf-hold of Oren Ban.  “A thousand leagues to the south,”  Dain Rocksmiter shook his head in disbelief. “And they send us!”

 

“Three months at least at sea.”  I sighed.   “I already feel we are tempting the Fates with so many nights afloat.”

 

“They already despatched one well found party to Oren Ban,” said Dain and the worry in his eyes was all too plain. “If they have failed, why by Durin are we ordered  to assume their quest, when we are so distant and already chasing our own quarry?  How can we be the nearest?  This makes no sense. I just hope insane Tharizdun is not corrupting the High Council itself!”

 

“This island of the Abbey has an … uncertain reputation?” Halduamina asked with wry resignation;  Druid Rubyrubb had made the same point with as much forbearance as a hungry wolf caught in a spiked snare.

 

“The Paladin and I shared an industrious week,” said Dain as he pointed to the two dozen  vials piled carefully upon the table.  “Apart from studying Draconic. However you chose to employ your time, there’s six flasks of Holy Water apiece.  I only hope we need far less.”

 

“Needing none at all would be snuggy-huggles by me!” replied our Gnome.

The small and single masted Triton’s Trident. 

Our voyage should only take a few hours, but secrecy was still our safeguard.

                                          To arrive off the Isle at dawn we would need to weigh anchor close on midnight.  

Eliander Fireborn ensured our keelboat was moored at a quiet anchorage a mile south of Saltmarsh, but alas for all our fond hopes of a quiet departure!  A raucous throng of mariners and longshoremen were laughing loud and long as they passed bottles around a huge bonfire.

For all my doubts dour Skipper Adumbert proved as good as his word.  We made landfall as the first shafts of sunlight lit the waves flayed white against that ring of reefs. Our ship heaved to off the southernmost point.  Ahead we saw open beach and barren dunes leading inland.  If we had not already spent so heavily bringing that brave cook Urgaub and Carmilla Fireborn back from the dead I would have considered buying a spyglass of our own;  well, today we simply had to trust our Captain knew his trade.

 

Dain Rocksmiter, in particular, took some convincing this southern beach was the only safe point we could land.  Even after seeing those sharp reefs and sheer cliffs all around the Isle, our stubborn comrade wanted to risk those churning waters and scale those grim sharp heights.   Captain Adumbert had us rowed ashore as planned but our jolly boat had barely grazed the sand before she was heading back to the Triton’s Trident waiting offshore.

 

“Just tell me one more time,” said Halduamina.  “This crew only get their full pay when we return.”

 

“Yes, you already know that,” I replied.  Was our Half Elven Rogue becoming confused?

 

“I just like hearing it again!” said Halduamina.

I summoned noble Boreas and swung myself into his saddle.  I regretted not having a lance but this ruined Abbey of Deep Procan was at least a mile away and I would prefer to ride if I could.  Both Dain and I were relieved to be clad in burnished steel once more, despite the warming sand beneath our sabatons.   There was no sign of life, no hint anyone had registered our presence, we saw the straggling sea grass waving in the breeze, small scuttling crabs at our feet, wading birds pulling worms out of the sand and overhead the plaintive wailing gulls.  Buddynock Rubyrubb took one glance at the rolling sand dunes ahead and stowed wheeled Wilson safe in his Bag of Holding, but Halduamina summoned his otter familiar Ettel so she could nip and gambol at our heels, delighted to feel the sun and smell the salt.

 

Dain nodded and we set off, moving along the western flank of the dunes, the steep sea cliffs on our left. 

 

“You really don’t trust the sand?” I asked.   “I can sense fell skeletons, some feet ahead.  Nothing more.”

 

“I’ve seen a dune or two before.” Dain said cryptically.  “And yes something has wormed its way into my thoughts.”

 

Our Druid gave him a knowing look. “Why is it dwarfs need to start speaking Gnomish whenever they want the words “cheery sod!” grinned Buddynock Rubyrubb.    “Well we’ve got one bucket between us, all we need is a spade!”

 

“And little flags!” added Halduamina.

 

I think Dain and I both lowered our visors at this point.

 

We were a good hundred yards inland when we heard the sound first, rustling sand  dead ahead.  The ground was moving, shifting, we glimpsed small yellowed spikes  clawing at the air and crusted white domes bulging upward, we saw empty eye sockets, gaping breathless jaws, we saw ten undead skeletons pulling themselves out of the dunes just ahead!

Cleric Rocksmiter did not hesitate  a heartbeat, our stalwart comrade stepped forward the holy symbol of Marthomir Duin shining resplendant on his shield. We heard his deep voice intoning words of power, we saw those ten animated skeletons simply disintergrate before our staring eyes, their vile bones destroyed in an instant by sheer divine grace.

 

“I’m so glad he’s on our side!” exlaimed Halduamina.

 

“Nifty as lace knickers!” said Buddynock Rubyrubb.

 

Dain is always so modest; he never seeks attention or praise, but by Durin he surely had a right to look pleased today!

 

We trudged onward, the waves still within hearing far below on our left.   “I had a mind to see if Marthomir Duin’s grace could have let me charm those plants on the cliff face into a ladder. One easy way to the summit.”   Dain Rocksmiter spoke hesitantly but we all saw the merits in his plan.  By Demeter and Persephone, I kept forgetting our Cleric friend could influence both animals and plants.

 

“Too late now of course, at least for today,” said Dain.   “Now that I turned those skeletons instead.”

 

“We’re here now,” grinned Halduamina.  “And making good progress.  I don’t think we are doing too badly.”   

Looking back the way we had come and hoping the wave worn Triton’s Trident would be holding her station as promised.  

 None of us relished the prospect of being marooned on this windswept isle.

We only had three days to finish our mission.

Little Ettel froze, her round ears twitching, her tiny rippling body suddenly rigid. Then we all heard.  The sand stirred again as ten more animated skeletons clawed their way out of the ground. Rivulets of sand ran between their sun bleached ribs and empty eye sockets,  scraps of corroded armour clung to their bodies, shreds of ravaged cloth fluttered in the breeze; they clutched rusted cutlasses and boarding pikes, caked hatchets, heavy falchions and long daggers.  They rushed forward, jaws agape in a soundless scream.

Once they would have terrified us, once, long ago.  Now Buddynock swung his enchanted shillelagh with dextrous grace, sending bone fragments flying in all directions, by dark Hades I remembered that fight deep in the mine in far off Phandelver!  Lithe Halduamina struck with deadly skill for our Rogue was graceful as a dancer, thrusting both rapier and long dagger through the head of his foe, little Ettel’s antics ensuring his attacks sneaked home. 

 

We all heard Grom’s gruff cries as he called out the axe strokes for our comrade.  His stocky legs were braced, his long kite shield held firm against his shoulder, Dain dealt deft strokes cleaving through rusted helms and tattered hauberks with barely a pause. I was lashing down with my enchanted mace Lightbringer, holy  bane of all Undead!  Crushed bones fell all about me as noble Boreas reared back in rage, his iron shod hooves crushing the skull of one undead foe.  I felt a cutlass glance off my armour before I struck backhand with my mace and one last skeleton fell shattered to the sand, never to rise again.

 

“If this is all the dunes hold,”  smiled Halduamina, brushing dust from his studded jerkin.

 

“We’re not across yet,” muttered careful Dain.  “And this drifting sand does not make walking any faster.”

 

“Funny to think it all used to be rock,” said Buddynock Rubyrubb.   “Bet you’d  like it then!”

We trudged forward another hundred and fifty yards, we could still only see the dunes rearing above us, but we knew this beach gave way to grass half a mile ahead, even if we could not glimpse any end to these shifting sands at present.  Dain still hankered for an approach making use of the cliff faces, surely a better chance to reach these ruins unobserved.  Dain truly wanted to try and we hotly debated his suggestion until we heard that quavering cry from ahead.  At first, we could not distinguish any words, at first all we heard was stark fear and desperation; the voice was exhausted, raw with thirst and hunger.  “Shipmates!  Shipmates don’t leave me. Not luckless Skeen, not poor old Lonely!”

 

Now we saw him, a thin arm waving with frantic weariness,  a sun bleached head struggling to rise into view.  "Can't run… no more… help… please!" The man was fifty or so, clad in ragged sailor’s breeches. His dark eyes shone with terror, his parched face was crusted with salt, burnt red and blistered.  We saw no weapons; no belongings at all save a pair of leather sea boots.  The castaway seized the waterskin we offered in two trembling hands and he suddenly started to sob when he could not immediately open the stopper. The man collapsed like a puppet whose strings have been severed, he lay shaking on the sand as fresh water poured down his throat.

 

                This windswept cliff top was scarcely a safe place to wait but at least astride tall Boreas I could keep the whole horizon in my sight.  Skeen was so exhausted he struggled to stand.   Our powers could not help him; only safe rest and sustenance would save his life.   The man was truly pitiful, he knelt before Dain Rocksmiter, plucking at his sleeve, his cracked voice  as grating as some ill tuned wood-warped fiddle:          “Don’t leave me Mr. Dain, don’t ee be leaving poor old luckless Lonely on a lee shore!   You be one of the good ‘uns!  Mr. Dain!”

“Knife-Catcher Skeen” in the life.

“But friends can just call me ‘Lonely! You be one of the good ‘uns Mr. Dain.”

Knife-Catcher Skeen’s own account of surviving the terrors of the dunes was certainly rich in colour, even if none of us believed even half his tale.

 

                Halduamina was surreptitiously checking Skeen’s pockets, then I saw him suddenly step back his elegant nose wrinkling.   We all smelt it then;   this Knife Catcher Skeen suddenly stank like a tannery in midsummer.    Fear affects each of us differently I suppose:  “but I can see why they calls him Lonely,” whispered Buddynock. (*)

 

                Skeen’s story was swiftly told.  A landing party surprised, surrounded and suddenly overwhelmed by this rising terror from the sand.  He had cast aside his weapons and fled, running frantically back to the beach as his shipmates were ruthlessly slain.  Skeen had found their jolly boat stove in and sinking even as more of the vengeful skeletons closed upon him.  He had run again, run and hidden among the sea grass and stunted thorns.   “It be six days ago, no seven, six, I don’t knows for sure, I can’t recall, don’t make me say Mr. Dain, don’t make me remember!”

 

                Poor patient Cleric Rocksmiter:  he showed true charity that day, despite those filthy hands plucking at his sleeve and that whining voice, entreating favours and pity.

 

                “Just what ship were they from?” muttered Halduamina.

 

                “Seeing as no one ever seems to come here apart from naughty nautical types,” nodded Buddynock Rubyrubb.   “Knife Catcher eh.  Somehow, I don’t think that refers to advanced waiter skills.”

 

                “You’re not wearing your Captain’s hat today?”  Our Rogue actually sounded quite surprised.

 

                “Always leave your audience wanting more,” grinned Buddynock.         

 

We could not simply abandon this man. Whatever risks might lie ahead in the ruined Abbey poor Skeen was clearly doomed if he stayed hiding in these death haunted dunes.  He was too weak to even wield a weapon.  So we trudged on, picking a careful path between the towering heaps of sand, always keeping the sheer cliff top to our left and our faces to the north.  Yes, we were vigilant but not quite careful enough.  We were surprised, true, but then so were the other party just around the last mound.  A mixed band of humans, half elves and one dwarf. 

---

 (*)             I prefer to presume for concealed  weapons rather than loose coin.

                                                        -2-

Wizard Ersalor the Exemplary and impish minion

(“And taking the larger size in mystic hood,”  muttered Buddynock).

 

Six of them, no seven. Half a dozen clad in armour and each  clutching an array of weapons with easy grace; warriors who clearly knew their trade well and did not waste effort striking martial poses.   Time crawled with crippled feet; sunlight glinted on axe blades and swords; we saw three heavy crossbows calmly pointing at our faces. The seventh wore long wizard’s robes and dark gloves, a tall man, his hood pulled down, his pointed beard and eyebrows carefully trimmed.  We all saw the branded rune on his forehead. A scarlet imp sat chittering upon one shoulder; I could virtually smell the stench of sulphur in those glaring eyes. 

 

“Fortunate adventurers, most clearly beloved by the Fates. You sought Ersalor the Exemplary: your search has found its close.”  This smiling wizard’s words were soft as duckling down, but his bodyguards still said nothing and their hands were hard around their hilts and their eyes never wavered.  At least these were not followers of blind Tharizdun:  his insane acolytes would simply have charged headlong on sight no matter the foe.

 

At the time we did not know, we could not realise.  His skill was subtle, his magic oh so deadly.  Ersalor was casting suggestion spells on each of us had we only realised.  Veteran mercenaries come at a cost and few wizards have full pockets.  Why not ‘recruit’ another four warriors to meet his cunning needs.   This wizard was clearly keen to find the ruined Abbey too. The mood eased; those steady crossbows were lowered, yet Ersalor’s bodyguard still did not speak, not yet, and we stared at each other like two hungry wolfpacks meeting midwinter on the rocks where their hunting grounds merge.

 

  
   Althea Liadon                                                                     Eva Rossum

 

Someone always has to speak first. This Althea Liadon actually seemed affable, at least for now, nodding her head in careful greeting.  We saw pointed ears protruding through her dark hair, an elvish flute protruding from her pack, as well as the longsword hanging from her baldric, the hilt without ornament, the grip worn smooth.  A woman of many talents … clearly,  and with a sense of grim humour too: “We’d share our stew but I’m not too certain even we’ll have anytime to eat it!”

 

At first sight silent Eva Rossum seemed merely another warrior caring more for payment than any righteous cause.  And yet … and yet, given time and closer observation I became less sure of my first impressions.  She was lithe, clearly strong, but Eva Rossum scarcely seemed to breathe even as she swung such a heavy crossbow to her shoulder, indeed, her slightest actions were all more precise than some monkish weapons master.   Any warrior must find some way to relieve their fears, to each their own and their means are often most inventive.  I have seen other resting fighters pull small objects from their pouch and play some game of pitch and pluck, yet Eva Rossum’s skill was again more dazzling than I expected.   She could set seven, no eight, small wooden balls spinning in the air, catching each in turn with lightning speed.  And she still never said one word.

                                                                                            

Geras Gerhart and Mord Sark seemed far easier to understand.   Gerhart was grizzled and bearded, he chewed strips of dried meat and hawked and spat continually, rarely taking much care where each gobbet landed.  A man with the arms of a blacksmith, wearing plate pauldrons, a curving falchion at his side and a face full of bluster.  His shield companion Mord Sark stood close by, his skin a pale indigo tint we had never seen before.  Sark’s  mail hauberk was worn but clearly in good repair and a long curved axe rested across his shoulders.  Both Gerhart and Sark were brawny, both were arrogant.  Men for the front rank, warriors to overwhelm their foes by sheer strength and brutal skill. I could guess why they chose to fight side by side.

  

Geras Gerhart                                                                             Mord Sark

 

Sigmund Hartman                                                                 Guthorm Troll Bleeder

  

We must all generalise to make any sense of life, yet wise minds still know when the expected patterns no longer quite fit.  I have met many dwarves in my time and yes, it was safe to say they shared such similar traits:  guarded at first, yet staunch and true, determined friends and dauntless fighters with a keen sense of honour.  I remember the bravery of  Thoradin and Hlin on that treacherous road to Phandalin and our desperate battle with that coiling carrion crawler.   We could only hope they were prospering and their little daughter was thriving.

 

Yet this scowling dwarf now was very different. Guthorm Troll Bleeder he called himself, jabbing a proud finger against his chest, his heavy axe had clearly seen much service, but whether he had ever actually faced any trolls was beyond knowing.  Guthorm’s head was shaved at the sides with a bristling centre strip of ruddy hair. His small eyes flickered, his set mouth was grim as a gravestone, his leather vambraces were inscribed with dwarfish runes which left Dain Rocksmiter frowning (*)

 

His companion seemed far easier to place.   She was fair of face indeed, her flaxen hair falling in a plait; her pursed mouth and blue eyes would have drawn the fond attentions of any bard or fresco painter.  A dextrous fighter, wielding two whirling hand axes, a warrior relying on speed and grace to make her kill. Both Halduamina and Buddynock certainly noticed how she filled her leather cuirass, both  breathed in and set their shoulders as they caught her gaze. (**)

 

I must pause to make this point clear.  Druid Rubyrubb enjoys life to the full;  for him better to seize each moment with both hands than sit and wonder later.   Buddynock in a tavern is a revelation: a spinning sunburst of smiles, winks  and grins; savouring each encounter and draining each cup.  Few can keep up with him, fewer still try more than once.   I could never quite call Buddynock Rubyrubb a preux chevalier, yet even ribald manners can have courtesy of a kind; our comrade may be quick to ask, yet he rarely ever seeks to give offence.

 

So on reflection I suppose we were all a little surprised.

 

Buddynock Rubyrubb certainly smiled at this demure shield maiden with the long flaxen plait.  Our friend certainly grinned when she winked and beckoned him forward.  I recall Buddynock Rubyrubb casually shining the toes of his boots on the back of his shins and setting his green hood at a jaunty angle and we all saw him casually sidling up to the young woman, looking up with innocent eyes framed by his brazen goggles.

 

Alas, we are all so wise with hindsight.  We really should have noticed the attention she was paying to Buddynock’s oaken charm hanging from his neck or the druidic marks inscribed around his shield.  (***)

---

 (*)           I often find the wider the mouth the faster the feet.  

Anyone who actually slays a ravening troll is simply glad to still be alive when the fight is over.

 

 (**)         Buddynock Rubyrubb jokes, we know he jokes, but does our Gnomish Druid truly carry a small step ladder in his magic bag?  He certainly favours unencumbered social encounters free of fetters. 

                 “Or established law, common decency and custom!”  muttered Cleric Dain.

                 I do not, cannot,  (despite trying) forget that dance with the grey goose, leeks and onions.        Some trodden measures truly bring tears to the eyes.

 

 (***)       Buddynock Rubyrubb has still not revealed what these druidic runes on his shield actually convey.

                Unless he has told the others?

  -3-

The young woman smiled sweetly, paused, her limpid lips opened and a voice like a growling bear said:   “Are you a dreck-kacken Druid then?”

 

Little Buddynock is nobody’s fool yet our friend was so surprised he could only nod … and then duck like a diving hawk as two hand axes slashed the air a bare inch from his pointed hood.  We sprang forward swords drawn just as burly blue skinned Mord seized the slim woman bodily round her waist.

 

“So you are truly a  Druid?”   Half Elf Althea again spoke with a panther’s grace.

 

“Just about!” replied Buddynock backing away eyes wide, his scimitar gleaming, and patting the top of his head for any new centre parting.

 

“You mustn’t mind dainty Sigmund,” grinned the dwarf Guthorn, his deep set eyes sparkling.  “Or his little ways!”

 

“His ways?”  said Halduamina.   “His!”

 

“And what’s … he …  got against Druids?” gasped Buddynock.  “Friends of nature we are, all winsome ‘n cuddly.  Love all plants and creatures even the thorny and less traditionally cute.  What by Pan’s scrotum has this … person got against Druids?”

 

“They also cast reincarnate,”  Ersalor the Exemplary spoke with wry amusement.  “A spell not even I, yes, not even I can master!”

 

By Cerberos, Buddynock Rubyrubb genuinely blushed, our Gnomish Druid actually hung his head with embarrassment.   “Oh. Ah.  Right.  Yes, … err … yes.  I sort of understand.  Sort of. But hey that wasn’t me though!” 

 

Sigmund Hartman was still glaring with pure hatred.  “Died in battle I did,   kreigfallen mit ehre, contract kept, alles plünderungen und raub by the book.  So I die and I’m out of it  und then … then … ein klugscheißer Druid calls me back.  Not into my own body no.  Into this.   THIS!    Affenschwanz!”

 

“But you live, this Druid brought you back to life,” I began.

 

“Ja, into ein body mit der blonde haar und langes bein.  Now ich muss der büstenhalter buy; now ich habe invitations from zer dreck mannen.  Teufel und bockmist!”

 

Even within the common tongue there are still dialects.  While we could not understand every word precisely Sigmund Hartman’s feelings were all too plain.

 

“Ich bin.  Sorry.  I am so very sorry,”  Buddynock held out a hand in reconciliation.  “But reincarnation magic is always random. We cannot control or predict what form the new body will take. Or what gender.  But at least Mr. Sigmund you are still alive again and surely,  perhaps … err there are …  some compensations?”

 

Zieh Leine!

 

“Come away NOW!” whispered Dain.  “I don’t think there’s anything more you can say at present.”

 

“Or ever!” Halduamina had pulled a corner of his own hood into his mouth and his eyes were shining.

“If he’s standing watch tonight, I prefer my chances with the bonies!” Buddynock poked three fingers through the missing tip to his hood.  “And why are we joining forces?  Who made that decision?”

 

None of us had an answer. We simply resumed our march north as one company, nimble Althea and Halduamina scouting ahead, winding our way between the highest dunes and those soft patches of sand where the worst drifts gathered.  The crashing sea still sounded on our left, overhead the wheeling gulls cried mournfully. All the world seemed empty and all the time I felt we were being watched.  I caught Dain’s eyes, yes, we were both thinking the same as Buddynock. We had all witnessed charm spells before and we sensed no similar enchantment here, but why by wise Prometheus were we so willing to join this dangerous band?  Was foul Tharizdun exerting some fell power, was this a sign his portal was on this barren rock?   Yes, we needed to escape these dunes, yes, we needed to find this ruined Abbey of Procan but … but … and it frightened me, I have to confess that truth, now  we simply marched in concord with this band of mercenaries.   Robed Ersalor had spoken and we were meekly following his suggestion.  I tried to think , tried to recall the precise moment we had agreed but my mind seemed full of fog. I knew what we were doing, I did, but for the very life and soul of me I could not say quite why.  Only Knife Catcher Skeen seemed puzzled by our actions as he stumbled along at Dain’s side.

 

Then suddenly there was no further time for contemplation.    Again the sand dunes stirred, again animated skeletons pulled themselves out of the ground, ten, twenty, no forty at least  came rushing towards us, some with bare hands, some with rusted blades, some with rags of red clothes or ruined armour, some simply bleached bone.  Ersalor the Exemplary sent a fireball exploding among them as a rattle of crossbow bolts thinned their ranks.  Skeen gibbered in fear but we were fighting as one, standing shoulder to shoulder, our shields braced, our swords and axes biting, my mace Lightbringer glowing with fury and Buddynock wielding his magic shillelagh again with deadly affect.  Those skeletons were fierce and fearless but they were still cut down and smashed to flinders before they could land one blow.

                 Returned to life by fell necromancy, these animated skeletons exist only to slay.

High from my saddle I shouted a warning.  More skeletons were rising from the sand, clouds of dust were filling the air, we felt the ground tremble, heard running feet.  For a moment we could only stand and stare.  Scores of skeletons were clasping hands, twining their legs together, forming a towering mass of bones rearing up against the sky, a great lumbering juggernaut of fell magic and the vengeful dead.  One, no two juggernauts thundered towards us while scores of further skeletons rushed onward through the sand.   Now Buddynock Rubyrubb showed his quality, now Buddynock Rubyrubb showed his quality indeed!  His Erupting earth spell burst beneath one towering mass of skeletons, bludgeoning them with sacred druidic magic.  We saw the mass lurching, fragments flying into the air, pieces of skulls and limbs and ribs plummeting to earth.  Wizard Ersalor sped another fireball but his magic had nothing of the power of our Gnomish Druid!   A second Erupting Earth spell from Buddynock left that stricken mass of skeletons still for ever on the torn and broken sand.

 

Our arrows and crossbow quarrels sped into their ranks as wily Dain Rocksmiter cast a spike growth transmutation spell to seal one flank with a choking mass of magic thorns.  The second skeleton juggernaut came rolling towards us.  Buddynock unleashed a thunderwave point blank, Dain sped a Guiding Bolt, Wizard Ersalor set the monstrous entity ablaze with a further fireball, the juggernaut was shedding bones with every  step but still it rolled on, still it loomed above us even as this second wave of skeletons slammed against our shields. Once again scores of skeletons cut and slashed savagely at our ranks, but once again our shields and stout armour turned their attack. 

 

“You be so brave Mr. Dain!  So valiant!  Them bony buggers be due for the bilges anytime YOU be a running aboard em!”  Knife Catcher Skeen was praising Dain’s prowess even with both hands clamped firmly over his eyes.

A towering juggernaut of skeletons looming over us, blotting out the sun, setting the sand quaking and rolling forward with frenzied speed, at least until Buddynock Rubyrubb unleased his Erupting Earth spells!   No Druid ever cares for the Undead!

Once again, we felled them rank upon rank but they never stopped, they never slowed, for every one we slew another five leapt forward.  How many would come, how many were lurking within this sea of sand, for now we had a new peril, a danger unforeseen.  That towering juggernaut proved more deadly by far.  Even as we injured that swarming mass, even as I called on Grey-Eyed Pallas ever Maiden, She who Fights in the Front Rank of Battles, heavy chunks of bone rained down upon us.  We dodged, at least we tried to, but even nimble Buddynock could not escape the fragments as they fell, I saw blood running down his face, felt my own head ring as bone shards beat upon my helm, and then gallant Boreas suddenly faded from sight, my celestial steed hit so many times he was dispelled to his own plane once again.  Oh if only I could have afforded fitted steel barding back in Svarstaag! I voided my saddle, my heater shield held high.  We were battered, we were reeling but we smote that juggernaut to the earth and smote again the dozen vengeful skeletons which leapt from the fragments to assail us.

 

We reached for waterskins and mopped our brows.  Dain’s Prayer of Healing mended some of our wounds, my Lay on Hands accounted for most of the rest.  Ersalor the Exemplary peered casually ahead.   “According to legend these skeletons only haunt the southern beach, they cannot leave the sand.”

 

“So when we clear these dunes we are safe?” I asked.  “From these particular undead I mean?

 

“Just when you think you know a foe they still surprise you,” Dain grunted.

 

Guthorn Troll Bleeder snorted and watched his spittle sink into the sand.  “If that’s the worst this pimple isle can throw, why are we waiting!”

 

“There is tempting the Fates,”  muttered Halduamina.

 

“And there’s taking a dump on their best carpet and asking ‘how’s that for a moving experience!”  said Buddynock Rubyrubb and there was no hint of merriment in his voice.  “One, two, three, four … and  …”

 

Our Halduamina has weathered more than most, he is slow to ever show dismay, yet now we saw his pointing arm trembling, his jaw drop with horror.  Keen are the eyes of elves and trust any Rogue to tally figures quickly. “There are five … hundred … and seventy one skeletons,  five hundred and seventy one rising out of the sand.   We saw a whole army advancing, five, no seven, no ten of those towering juggernauts assembling , we saw swarms of skeletons racing towards us, a moving, rushing wall of bone and fury.  Some ahead, some behind, we were surrounded. We only had moments to live.

 

We heard the chanting, saw the wizard’s hands moving.  Ersalor the Exemplary was rising into the air before we realised, soaring away and out of harm’s reach.  He paused, stared down, considered and then we saw Althea Liadon  the Half Elf rising too.  Ersalor was weighing his choices, all the while smiling down benignly, all while that onrushing undead army charged upon us.   Ersalor cast his flying spell again,  once, twice:  first Geras Gerhardt then Mord Sark felt themselves lifting off the ground. We were staring upward in sheer disbelief, we were being abandoned, whatever chance we had was being stripped away.  I was hastily summoning Boreas once more as Sigmund Hartman felt himself taking to the air. He was the last.

 

“Alas that is all the spare mana I have,” Ersalor said benignly as raging Guthorn Troll Bleeder vainly hurled his axe upward and silent Eva Rossum simply made metallic clicking noises. “I believe we can safely say your contracts with me are ended!”

 

 

I swung myself into tall Boreas’ saddle, bracing my back against the high cantle.  I uncoiled  the second stirrups I had fitted back in Swarstaag.  “Destrier form Buddynock;  just as fast as any riding horse and far more powerful.  Dain up behind me, Halduamina will be better riding bareback.”  (*)

 

Guthorn Troll Bleeder was raging: screaming curses and levelling his crossbow at the onrushing horde.  Even now, Eva Rossum still never said a word, she simply stood back to back with her comrade, her hands a blur of movement as she wound her heavy bow, aimed and loosed.

 

“Don’t be leaving me! Not me!  Not your old pal little Lonely! Mr. Dain! Mr. Dain!” Knife Catcher Skeen was shaking with terror; I nodded and Halduamina swung the castaway up behind him. We could not carry more, not yet, not now.  Our horses were laden; we could not carry more.

 

“Let us reach the treeline and we’ll return to you, we’ll try, I give my word.” I cried out as Boreas pulled on the reins. 

 

Eva Rossum still said nothing, the dwarf Guthorn simply spat curses as he loaded and loosed, wound his crossbow and aimed again. Noble Boreas sprang forward, gallant Buddynock barely a tail’s length behind.  We raced north, running flat out, never fearing noise now, trusting wise Boreas to pick the best path through patches of soft sand.  Skeletons loomed forward with levelled spears.  They were plucking at my bridle, reaching out with clawing fingers to seize and drag us down, yet they were still scattered, still few and we were well armed and resolute. I swung down with my enchanted mace, jabbing back with the butt when one of the walking dead leapt up and grasped my right stirrup.  Skeletons suddenly crumpled before us as Alethea Liadon, Mord and the others sent crossbow bolts flying from above.  We did not look back; we did not dare to.  To stay was simply to die with our mission unfulfilled, our oaths unkept and tens of thousands left at risk,  but this flight still abandoned two people to their deaths.  Eva Rossum and Guthorn were not our party, not our comrades, we simply could not save them, but logic offers little shield from shame.   

                       Buddynock Rubyrubb in war horse form:  a destrier fit for an emperor’s stables.

---

(*)           They laughed afterwards.  Much, much later. 

But neither Halduamina nor Buddynock ever explained just why.

 Perhaps it might be wisest for our Druid to store saddle and tack in his bag of holding for any future equestrian antics.

                                                              -4-

“Ride knee to knee,” I shouted.   “Dain, Skeen just you hang on.  If you fall, we cannot save you, just hang on.”

               

                Boreas and Buddynock were racing flat out, spumes of sand flying from their hooves, weaving between the towering dunes and tufts of thorns; gaining distance when the ground was firm, struggling when drifts suddenly snared their legs. Halduamina had his hands wrapped through Buddynock’s waving mane, Lonely Skeen kept his eyes tight shut, his thin arms clasped round our Rogue’s waist;  for a moment they slipped, for a moment I thought they were both falling, but by a miracle of dexterity our Half Elf comrade still steadied himself, steadied himself and hung on.  Gallant Boreas bowled through at least five skeletons as he galloped onward, knocking one aside with a shake of his mighty head. There were more outcrops of twisted thorns now, even wind stunted trees. The skeleton army was closing around us, scattered bands linking as the distance dropped; four looming juggernauts rolling after us in a mad medley of bone limbs. 

 

                We rounded another dune, we glimpsed waving grass and larger trees a mere half mile ahead, we saw a tight locked swarm of skeletons blocking our path, rusted pikes raised, the first rank kneeling, the others braced behind them.  Now, NOW was the time.  “Athens Eternal!” I called on Pallas Athene, called on her divine grace, her emblem on my shield shone with light:  my words, her power,  scattered that skeleton phalanx and sent them running!  My visor was pulled down, I strained my eyes to see, there, yes there in the distance stood Ersalor and his four chosen hirelings calmly watching our escape:  were they laughing as they sped an occasional crossbow quarrel into the undead horde?  Damn them all if they were also laying wagers!

 

The sand beneath our steeds’ hooves gave way to grass, to honest soil,  to a fringe of trees, to a shallow pool of water.  Ersalor the Exemplary stood smiling calmly at the undead horde behind us.  Those skeletons halted as one mind, they pursued no more, all bound to the sand, the sand alone.  They stood; they stared.   Mord Sark and Geras Gerhardt casually swung their axes at the foremost rank, the skeletons shattered where they paused but did not advance again.   We eased our pace at last, we stopped, drew breath, drew rein and glanced behind us.  Whatever we had hoped there was no chance at all of riding back for the last two members of Ersalor’s band.

Our view to rearward and to the flank was less encouraging.

 

“We need dogs,”  Buddynock said thoughtfully later.   “Lots of dogs.   Hungry dogs.”

 

“I am not going to ask,” sighed Dain “I know you are still going to tell me but I’m not going to ask.”

 

“Dogs like bones!”  beamed Buddynock.  “Enough hungry hounds and those revelling rib cases will be mere elevenses in two barks and a woof!”

 

“Mind like a steel trap,”  said Halduamina, shaking his head.

 

“I can only wonder what he uses for bait,” said Dain Rocksmiter.

                The anger in Dain’s face was plain as a pike point.  “Why by great Marthomir did he not fly back for them?  Or at least try!”

 

                I could not say, I had no answer:  this mage still exerted some strange hold on our minds, something subtle and impossible to grasp, yet an influence existing all the same.  Ersalor seemed to have forgotten his two lost mercenaries already, his remaining four hirelings merely bowed their heads, poured a libation of red wine into the sand and satisfied themselves with making camp.

 

                Yes, we were weary, yes between us we had used more magic than I cared to consider, yes, a long rest would indeed be wise before we attempted to enter the ruins ahead, but why did we meekly comply with all Ersalor’s suggestions?    Sigmund Hartman still had daggers in his gaze whenever he caught sight of little Buddynock and we were careful to keep our distance even though we shared the same fire.   We kept joint watch for that seemed wisest and I was relieved gallant Boreas and Ettel where also standing sentry, together with our Druid’s bucket automaton.   Wilson certainly raised some eyebrows and even that arrogant mage seemed nonplussed!

 

                At least the night passed without incident.  Our new allies appeared to forget their fallen comrades the instant they closed their eyes, but Althea Lindon played some elvish lament upon her long flute and I wondered if this spoke of some deeper feeling, some loss.  Wizard Ersalor muttered over his spell book as Dain, Buddynock and I paid our morning devotions and felt the power of our deities surging anew through our souls.  I left Boreas contently cropping the sparse grass.  We were drawing near the ruins now and stealth would serve us better than speed: I could always summon my celestial charger telepathically if the need came.   We advanced with calm resolve Althea and Halduamina out in front as scouts, Buddynock and Sigmund Hartman covering our flanks. We arrived in barely an hour.

 

                The venerable Abbey of Divine Procan of the Deeps had been reduced to a great square of soot-stained, tumbled stone, smashed tiles and blackened rubble.  We saw deliberate piles of debris, one with copper kitchenware; one with smashed porcelain and pottery,  one with mounds of wood and charcoal.  Three pitiful vegetable plots had been persuaded from the rocky ground; but the wind worn cabbages and leeks scarcely looked inviting.  There was certainly nothing of any value before us but in the very centre of the devastation we saw a stone staircase leading down to a charred wooden door.

The Undead Guardians of the Dunes: waiting, watching, ready for our return. Beneath the sand they slept.

I looked to my friends and made sure long Talon lay loose in the scabbard.  We could not be sure how many priests and acolytes lay within. This would take a delicate touch not some headlong assault and better to talk than fight … if possible.  The Wizard’s mercenaries were making a cache of their packs.  We heard Geras Gerhardt and bitter Sigmund joking as to who would own the other’s savings by the end of the day. Blue skinned Mord Sark appraised the wooden door before us: from his words this man certainly knew carpentry.

 

Whatever Ersalor had cast upon us was clearly still potent.  We were aware of our thoughts and actions, aware and able to act, yet some fog still lay upon our minds even so;  we were willing, happy to wait for this mage to plan his next action.  We soon learnt we were fortunate indeed, for Ersalor the Exemplary had mastered spells we had never seen before.  I simply pray never to witness them again.

 

It was the serene calmness that disturbed me most: as casual as a heartless child mindlessly stepping on some helpless ant.   Wizard Ersalor raised his hands, we heard him chanting. We caught the same acrid reek we last witnessed at far off Thundertree; the same latrine stench as dead Venomfang’s chloral breath and my restored left eye began to sting. A livid green cloud with streaks of mustard yellow formed and thickened from the empty air, it floated against the wind, moving to the whim of smiling Ersalor. The fog seeped down the stone steps to the door below,  passing through cracks in the timbers and the weathered frame.  I could see Dain Rocksmiter clenching his fists in fury, Buddynock and Halduamina both looked sick to the stomach, I was fighting his influence too, striving to resist Ersalor’s insidious command, but now, just now, something sinister held us, we could not intervene however much we wished.

               

                We heard cries of alarm, we heard muffled, choking screams.  Three men in filthy robes staggered through the opened door and stood at the foot of the steps.  One fell, his limbs convulsing, the others staggered up the stairs, fighting for breath, fighting for their lives. Ersalor raised one benign finger and his mercenaries lowered their bows.  Both men crawled clear of the killing cloud, ripping the hoods from their heads to gulp fresh air.  One shuddered and lay still, and we all saw the livid blisters crusting his face and the two blinded eyes staring empty at the sky.   

Cloudkill is a spell no civilised mage can ever employ: such murderous sorcery is sheer abomination.

We never once heard Ersalor raise his voice.  He could have been reciting a lyric poem, or describing some fresco to students of the arts: his words were measured, gentle, his eyes almost kindly.  This last wretched retching guard knelt before him,  still choking from that killing cloud, the burns on his hands and face raw and bleeding.  He was ready to talk; he was only too willing. 

 

Only the most naïve ever believe there is “honour amongst thieves.” The Abbey had been trading loot with the pirates for years and skimming more than their share from the barter.  A year ago, the Sea Princes landed on that southern beach determined to negotiate new contracts at the point of their spears.  Several hundred pirates marched inland only to discover why the corrupt priests of Procan did not fear them.  These luckless pirates met the undead haunters of the dunes.  Some sea rovers fought their way clear; most died on those blood soaked sands.  The pirates who finally reached the Abbey were no longer thinking of any parley.  They slew the priests and acolytes, servants and guards.  They looted all they could carry, spoiling the rest and setting the abbey ablaze.  One of their prisoners showed them a safe path through the sand dunes, a narrow twisting stretch of sand which did not summon the dead.  They needed far fewer boats to leave the island but these last surviving pirates still sailed away.

 

Despite the massacre a few of the brothers still survived. Men lurking in the cellars or  unconscious and left for dead amidst the slain.  Barely fifteen in all:  acolytes, and their guards, alongside two of the priests, a visiting bard and a gladiator accepting hard coin to serve as a bodyguard.

 

“And ‘The Winding Way’?    Ersalor’s words fell like a snowstorm in midsummer.

 

The prisoner turned his face to the ground; his shoulders started to shake.  “No one knows, none of us at least.  Only the Abbot and he was slain.  Only the Abbot and maybe the priest Mandos in the cellars.”

 

“Really?”  asked Ersalor, staring at the prisoner like a money lender tallying loose coppers.

 

“On my word before great Procan, I do not know, I cannot say.  You have to believe me.  Trust me, you can trust me!”  The hapless man leaned forward to grasp Ersalor’s boots, we saw his wounded hands reaching out, his bleeding fingers scrabbling in the dust. We saw a smile flickering on Ersalor’s face, heard him chanting and the prisoner suddenly had neither fingers, nor hands, face or feet.   A gasping fish now lay upon the stones, eyes bulging, its tail flapping twisting and writhing in agony and fear.  And still Ersalor smiled, staring down with casual amusement.  We all stepped forward, we tried to, but we heard a warning cough from the wizard’s minions, saw their levelled crossbows pointed bare inches from our throats.

 

The fish was weaker now, moving more slowly and fluid ran from its gills.  Its great eyes clouded, all movement stopped,  Ersalor the Exemplary spurned it aside with one boot and nodded to his hirelings.  “There will be none alive inside now but best be sure.”

 

The wizard beckoned us all forward.  Slowly we descended the stairs.

 

“That was a polymorph spell,” whispered Buddynock, his eyes wide with horror. 

 

“That was cold blooded murder!” snarled Dain. 

 

“And the man had already said all he knew,”  said Halduamina.   “That was no interrogation any more, the mage enjoyed it!”

 

“Watch your backs, “ I said.  “And keep checking the flanks.  Whatever this wizard might say, he cannot be sure.  We could be facing anything down there.”

We heard sudden shouts, commands, a shrill scream cut short. Wisps of that choking vapour scoured our throats as we plunged down those steps, leaping the sprawled body at the threshold.  Poor Skeen we left lurking outside, the man was still exhausted and by the Dog, there were good reasons to keep the vulnerable out of this slapdash skirmish!  Ersalor the Exemplary was not the most tactically gifted leader I had encountered.  The large cellar reeked of soured food, we saw a long makeshift table of burnt planks propped on barrels, with splintered kegs as chairs, we saw eight doorways and the gleam of steel as the acolytes and veterans of the Abbey defended their home.  Ersalor sped a fireball into one room and silenced any bowmen within, but his mercenaries were struggling to overwhelm such resolute defenders. One huge man was caught in the open and quickly despatched despite his size and strength, this hulking swordsman was still coughing from that killing cloud, he stood like a boar at bay, but he was outflanked on both sides and fell dying to the floor.  We charged the right hand doorway, two crossbow bolts missed us by a pixie’s whisper and we heard someone within calling on his Gods. 

 

Buddynock’s eyes widened:  “Thunderwave!  Duck!”  Dain Rocksmiter’s Guiding Bolt trailed divine light as he sped his spell through the threshold, lithe Halduamina lunged long with his rapier, we head a cry of pain and the caster fell. Crossbow quarrels flensed the hall, most of us, all of us were hit; reckless Ersalor evaded a Hold Person spell,  but now we saw shining tridents summoned to defend the worshippers, two of these spiritual weapons were jabbing down at our faces.  One of our foes cast their own Guiding Bolt and Mord Sark staggered under the impact, his blue skin suddenly outlined in sparkling light, an easy mark for their bowmen.  Our ears rang as another priest cast Thunderwave and we lurched back, our bodies numbed and bruised.  We slew the priest, we had to, before he could cast again, but this was insane, we now heard vicious sing song chanting as a bard mocked “Ersa Lack of Lore” leaving our wizard clasping his temples in pain and his Imp familiar curled into a ball and keening in agony.

 

I called out, ordering our foes to surrender but my demand went unheeded. Ersalor’s mercenaries were hurt but holding their ground, nimble Althea fighting in one doorway, her elven blade dancing, and gruff Sigmund hurling one of his axes into a room as mighty Geras braced a fallen table against another doorframe, blocking any attack from that quarter.  And all through this close fought fight we heard Knife Catcher “they calls me Lonely” Skeen shouting shrill encouragement to “Mr. Dain.”

 

Now we glimpsed shining ethereal figures emerging from the shadows:  giant shimmering forms of some sea beasts risen from the deeps.  They advanced only a dozen paces, but injured Mord Sark  backed away and reckless Ersalor moaned with fear.  These spirit guardians held their position, their pale faces glowing, arms outstretched.  We could not, dared not approach, whoever might be lurking in the chamber behind them

 

I raised my visor and shouted again, promising quarter if our foes threw down their arms. Sometimes silence seems even more deafening than the din of battle.  We were all gasping for breath, most of us, on either side with injuries.   We heard an elvish accent light as a sunbeam demanding I swore on my oath.  At last, at long last we saw weapons lowered to the floor and our foes finally emerged from hiding.

 

Eight had fallen, including the three dead outside. Mandos was the senior priest surviving, an elderly man with scanty snow white hair and pointed beard.  Was the man in some trance or simply numbed with fear? He scarcely seemed to hear us; he simply would not speak.  And why conceal the iron holy symbol about his neck?    Bayleaf the languid Elven bard was certainly alert; he smiled more than I cared for but showed no open hostility. A longbow and lute were slung on his back, and he had sheathed his moonblade falchion. We also held a junior priest his thin face streaked with blood, four acolytes and three of their own temple warriors.  Each carried a flanged mace, and the warriors also bore round shields. Questions could wait, at least for the moment, as Dain sent up a Prayer of Healing and we posted sentries before sitting down thankfully to rest.

Mandos the acting Abbot.

He showed no fear, no anger but was this truly stoic resignation?

Why did the man not display his holy symbol openly?

This Elvish Bard Bayleaf seemed so very ready to accept his changing fate.

Hardly someone we expected to discover in some burnt out near abandoned Abbey.

  These  priests of  Procan clearly chose their temple guards for martial prowess not piety.

Each wielded a flanged mace and round shield.

 

 Our search was thorough.  Halduamina first used his floating Mage Hand to check for unwanted surprises before employing his steel lockpicks on the desk.  Our Rogue found two flasks of rare ink, spell scrolls of Light and Bless, a set of account books and five volumes bound in blue leather with copper trim.  Some collector would certainly pay for arcana like this but the contents were depraved and only fit for the fire.   We joined Althea and Sigmund picking over a makeshift kitchen where a greasy cauldron smouldered on charcoal next to a large tub of dirty water. The only scrolls here were recipes for flatbread and seagull stew. We found straw sleeping pallets in the other chambers and a scatter of personal belongings: a score of gold coins and a dagger with a whalebone handle embellished with amateur scrimshaw.  Another chamber boasted kegs of beef and salt pork almost as hard as the ivory, mouldy sacks of beans and flour, two boxes of wizened cabbages and some farming tools.  We found ten flasks of oil, three lanterns, two coils of hemp rope and two ten foot poles. Four healing potions in ornate crystal flasks were most welcome!

 

Their armoury was next and we loaded five spears, a short bow, forty or so arrows, two arming swords, two shields and a mail hauberk into our bags of holding, for beleaguered Saltmarsh needed all the arms it could find.   These  acolytes still preserved some discipline:  one room was swept clear of dust and debris and seemed to be a meeting room for  this marooned community. I certainly did not expect to find a parade of statues, each nearly three feet high, of dogs and horses, monks, pilgrims and footmen. Each was fashioned from glazed clay and the two largest were spattered with bird dung.  This elven bard Bayleaf was certainly observant for he answered our  question before we even spoke. This medusa and skeleton sculptures were briefly used as scarecrows over the vegetable patches.  Alas each hungry seagull scorned to give them a second glance and after a few weeks both were simply carried back inside.

 

Trust wily Halduamina to sniff out treasure.  His Detect Magic spell revealed a hidden compartment in the stone base of the medusa and we found spell scrolls of Command and Hold Person, together with a tome of incantations scripted in both Aquan and Infernal.  Dain Rocksmiter is familiar with those Underdark runes, and he only needed to read the first page before insisting this ancient grimoire was also burnt without delay.  Any wise mind loves learning but some tomes are just too dangerous and some filth corrupts anyone it touches.  Dain shuddered even just mouthing the word “Necronomicon.”          

The last room held hanging tapestries all along the chamber walls: long lengths of faded black velvet, moth eaten and torn but with a tableau of a vast red dragon devouring frantic sheep.  

“They honestly called this a meditation room?”  Dain  Rocksmiter muttered to me, forgetting how the echoes carried our voices.

 

“Be that you Mr. Dain?  You be smart as paint you be Mr. Dain.  A right Admiral cove, all fair trim and topsails set!  Clever as a clove hitch, brave as a boozed bosun!  You hear him, does you?  You all be glad; you all be sailing in company with THE Mr. Dain!”  Going by the volume, Knife Catcher Skeen appeared to have improvised some form of speaking trumpet.  Going by the duration, Skeen had discovered a full bottle of spirits. I could only watch my  comrade rip away handfuls of velvet hangings and stuff the fabric into his helm.

 

Mord Sark pulled back the hanging tapestry far more carefully than we expected. Both Halduamina and Althea Lindon began tapping the walls behind and our Rogue had his brass listening cone pressed against the stone.  I saw them nod to each other, smile and then we heard the creak of gears, the slow rotation of heavy tumblers and five feet of the stone wall turned under their hands, revealing a freezing blackness beyond.  The air was suddenly chill as ice and musty as a sealed herring barrel.  I think we all gripped our swords a little tighter.  (*)

 

Ersalor the Exemplary beckoned to his bodyguards and burly Geras pushed Priest Mandos to the fore.  The old man still seemed almost unaware of our presence.  He certainly showed no fear despite the weapons pointing at his throat. “So you have found the entrance to The Winding Way.  I wish you joy of it.”

 

“You imagined we are leaving you behind?”  Ersalor licked his lips, as the grinning Imp on his shoulder hissed with satisfaction.  “Oh no.  You and ‘your flock’ will take their places with us!”

 

“I can tell you now.  Tell all of you, I can sense the Undead in there.”  I made sure my voice was heard clearly and Dain Rocksmiter nodded in approval.   “There are more animated skeletons.  Not many but there is something too, a creature I do not know and cannot describe,  but I know it’s undead, alert and waiting.  Any explanation … Mandos?”

 

“Our Abbot walked The Winding Way whenever he chose.  He dared the darkness and The Guardians and returned to us each time.  Others were … not so fortunate.”   Mandos still showed no emotion.   “You are set on this path?  Truly resolved?”

 

“Do I get any bloody vote at all?” muttered Buddynock Rubyrubb. “Hello!”

 

Ersalor merely smiled with contempt and gestured his mercenaries forward: burly Geras Gerhardt and Mord Sark advanced briskly into the passage and I kept pace alongside them with my enchanted mace Lightbringer clenched ready for battle. We had all witnessed Ersalor’s terrifying powers: I could only imagine the other spells this wizard was ready to cast. Our floating Driftglobes wrestled with the darkness, our short breaths billowed white in the freezing air.  Buddynock was hard on my heels.  Mandos and his party fell in beside us, Ersalor and his remaining ruffians came next. Between us we filled the whole tunnel,  Dain and Halduamina brought up the rear.  Only  Knife Catcher Skeen remained above ground.

 

We advanced with care, twenty feet, thirty, taking no chances. These undead were close, very close, there was no chance to send scouts ahead. The passage opened abruptly into a larger chamber: chill as an ice house, the dangling cobweb strands picked out in frost. I sensed our foes just before they charged, shouting a warning, bracing my shield to meet the attack. 

---

(*)           We never expected any brawny mercenary to talk with such aware ness of tapestries and frescos.

This blue skinned Mort Sark was far more accomplished than we ever expected.

                                                            -5-

We heard the thunder of hooves, saw a monstrous shape hurtling towards us:  two looming lowered horns, a rib cage like barrel staves, a great axe raised to strike, a towering skeletal minotaur, eye sockets empty, jaws agape.  Burly Geras Gerhart, was hurled backward by the impact, impaled on both horns through shield and cuirass even as the swinging axe severed his head from his shoulders.  Mord Sark, gasped in horror swung and missed.  A second skeletal minotaur charged out of the darkness, I sidestepped, calling on divine Athene Lady of Battles and my holy mace smashed home like an iron shod siege ram.  The monstrous beast staggered back in a splinter storm of sundered bone and sinew.  Dain Rocksmiter sped a Guiding Boat against that first minotaur as it shook dead Geras from its horns: the undead terror roared with fury even as Bayleaf the Bard and Halduamina sped careful arrows.

 

Sudden screams erupted behind us. Long fingers reached out for living prey and a temple acolyte fell without a sound, his heart stilled, all life drained from his body.  Careful Buddynock had flasks of Holy Water ready to throw and one spectre faded back into the solid stone, its winding sheet singed and burning.  My Minotaur skeleton collapsed in a medley of shards and flinders as I crushed its skull.  Ersalor was bawling orders, or trying to, and sending fiery bolts flying from his fingers with little effect.  Dain Rocksmiter’s second Guiding Bolt left the last skeletal Minotaur roaring with fury and an easy mark for Mord Sark. The blue skinned veteran avenged his comrade with two vicious cuts from his curving axe.

 

Heroic Theseus himself would have struggled to slay such a creature.

The stone Great axe seemed a small child’s toy in such mighty hands.

Althea Lindon and Sigmund were fighting back to back, eyes wide with horror, calling out attacks to each other.  Again the two Spectres floated through solid stone, one rising from the floor as the second loomed down from the ceiling, lifting a luckless guard bodily with both hands bound about his neck.  One of his comrades clung frantically to his helpless, kicking legs,  but the man still fell  lifeless to the floor.  Both Halduamina and Buddynock were hurling Holy Water;  both hit, the crystal vials shattering on impact, yet again the Spectres simply faded back into the walls.  The remaining acolytes ran, the priest and warriors too, throwing down their weapons as they fled.  We heard their desperate footsteps, and then the screams, something was waiting for them down the passage and most did not see daylight again.  

Spectres.  Darkness visible, the hungry grave,  the bringers of Death.

 

 

I tried to call out to Ersalor and order a retreat; I tried but the breath died in my throat. I felt my flesh withering, gasped as a grave chill blistered my body,  the very darkness itself came rushing towards me.  How did I know, how did I guess?  Some happy instinct made me avert my gaze.  One glance was enough, one single glance and   Mord Sark screamed and dropped dead to the floor, his blue skinned body still and cold.    I heard a hiss of satisfaction, saw pallid hairless skin, gaunt glistening hands, a yawning maw filling fully half the face. I saw two milk-white empty eyes outstretched into vertical ovals. A Bodak! An actual Bodak!

We were truly between the hammer and the anvil. I could hear running feet behind me as those remaining few guards fled, I heard Buddynock telling them to stand, heard the sheer shock in his voice: “Not again!” when Ersalor The Exemplary cast Misty Step on himself and joined the rout.

 

The Bodak’s cold fingers were snatching at my shield, those terrible eyes were boring into me. I resisted, somehow, but the breath stopped in my throat as my  skin seemed to shrink and shrivel. I heard a shout of gnomish triumph as Buddynock and Halduamina caught a spectre with two flasks of Holy Water together; the living shadow was transfixed in mid-air, its long shroud rippling with flame.  It made no sound, this spectre still tried to seize living prey, but that dark robe fell empty to the floor, fell empty then faded too.  Althea Lindon still faced the second spectre; she was stabbing home with a silvered dagger; Sigmund Hartman simply concentrated on warding off those clawing hands. Ersalor was gone, but elven Bayleaf was loosing enchanted arrows anytime chance permitted and all this time old Mandos simply stood motionless staring into space.

 

The Bodak was remorseless, fearless, its burning eyes flickering from face to face, its long claws raking against our armour: it’s very aura was sapping the strength from our bodies.  “Pallas Athene be with me now!  Grey-Eyed Athene, Parthenos kai Promachos!”  I used my Wrathful smite, the Bodak shrugged off my magic, but my holy mace still smashed home. Dain Rocksmiter was charging forward to support me: his rune axe calling out the stroke.  The Bodak’s gaze met him like a siege ram splintering a gate.  Dain Rocksmiter dropped to the ground, helpless, motionless, scarcely breathing.

Bodaks, the raging vengeful dead, restless denizens of the Abyss: their very glare is death.

Tormented, punished, they seek only to share their own agony.

I could not help Dain;  I could not even spare him a glance; this undead obscenity of Orcus was relentless.  “It’s gone!  It’s gone!”  I heard Halduamina shouting from behind me.

 

“Nope, the shifty bugger’s back again!” cursed Buddynock.  “Pervy bastard!   Tactical advantage is one thing but rising up just there?  If I was one of those Highland Gnomes with a kilt and furry dangler my old Mum would have had WORDS with any Hide ‘n Seek haint!”

 

More vials of Holy Water splintered behind me as Halduamina lunged forward with his moonblade rapier, his otter familiar desperately trying to draw the spectre’s attention. It was injured surely, by dark Hades  it had to be, but this fell creature could pick and choose precisely when to withdraw.  Halduamina was hurt now, I think we all were, but as this spectre sank back into the floor, keen-eyed  Bayleaf nocked and loosed again. Either his arrows or longbow must have been enchanted for this second spectre screamed and faded, dead finally, dead at last.

 

I was still on my feet, still standing astride poor Dain, warding off that Bodak with shield and mace.  Little Buddynock valiantly tried to drag Dain clear as he frantically felt for any heartbeat.  We were all striking together now, all hurling axe sweeps, and sword cuts, enchanted arrows and even a flask of oil.  At last this thing from the grave, this obscene entity, this Bodak, shuddered, staggered and fell back dead and still.  I still brought Lightbringer down on its shrouded head, once, twice, again and again, determined to be certain, to be sure.

 

“Fall back!” urged Halduamina, as he knelt next to Buddynock and seized Dain’s belt.  “Right now.  Now!”

 

I nodded, checked there was truly nothing we could do for Mord Sark and I stepped back covering the retreat.  Seven, no eight of our group had fallen and Dain was barely breathing;  a high price indeed to pay for forty feet.   We were all exhausted, all numb with shock, and we simply did not notice soon enough  Old Mandos had stood silent and unmoving throughout the melee; simply staring into space as we fought for our lives.

 

                Only now old Mandos was walking forward with calm resolve, walking forward into that place of death. He was past us before we even realised,  he did not speak, he did not hurry, old Mandos simply hobbled forward into the dark.  We called out, we all did,  and nimble Halduamina dashed forward, but Mandos paid no heed, he could almost have been  walking in his sleep.  His iron holy symbol was suddenly shining openly around his neck.  Priest Mandos stepped into the shadows and disappeared from sight, still without haste, still without a sound.

 

There was no time now, none at all.  We fell back nursing our wounds and bearing the helpless body of  Dain Rocksmiter.  We would not be venturing further down The Winding Way today. Mandos had disappeared,  Geras and Mord Sark were dead,  a half dozen acolytes and temple guards were also slain.  Dain would recover, we all would given rest, but no one would sleep safely tonight unless we had sentries posted and our remaining eighteen Holy Water vials ready.

 

Ersalor the Flighty was still full of bluster even now, but his two last mercenaries Sigmund Hartman and Althea Lindon simply made him aware they expected bonus payments otherwise they would take their chances on the dunes.  A temple guard still lived and also one of the acolytes; that resourceful elvish bard Bayleaf waited nonchalant as ever. We would rest and recoup our strength and magics, we only had one day left to rejoin our waiting ship, all was at  stake and we had to accept this hazard.   We broached half the Abbey’s supply of lamp oil and poured this just within the secret passage; the shimmering pool was held in place with coils of their hempen rope.  Not the most sophisticated defence, but something to hold back any guardians of The Winding Way should they try paying us a visit in the dark.

 

That one night seemed to endure a full year. I slept a little, I think we all did, but only with vigilant Wilson standing watch and two sentries posted every hour.  I  would not normally trust my life to any of Ersalor’s robber band, nor rely on these survivors from the Abbey, but each of us so plainly, needed the others now.  Life persists in educating us, whether we are willing or no.  This Ersalor … this shameless man who fled the fight twice, who abandoned his own companions.  We all know fear, and we all know how thin the line between courage and cowardice but this wizard showed no repentance, no regret for his callous treachery.  Wise Socrates encourages us to “be kind for everyone you see is fighting a hard battle.”  I try to observe his precepts, I do, but this does not come easy with vicious fools like Ersalor.

 

Buddynock Rubyrubb was snoring away beside me during my watch, wound so tight in his cloak only his long nose protruded.  My friend had never spoken of those events aboard the Primewater Pleasure, of those moments when he had left this world and joined the ranks of the dead. Our Druid relies on wit to ease all woes: he plays the clown to soften the moment;  but Buddynock Rubyrubb had made no joke, no comment at all about his experiences before Dain’s holy magic had called him back.  Would Buddynock tell us one day?  Perhaps, and by lost Eurydice I was curious, but no, I would not ask, not now not ever.   Some matters are too poignant, too personal for any easy words.  My friend could keep his own counsel if he chose and, in any case, we all might soon find this same truth for ourselves.  (*)

 

I do not say we rested well, but even so we slept. A long day was dawning and none could say just who among us would live to see the dusk. We prepared ourselves for the second attempt to vanquish The Winding Way. Our small ship would be weighing anchor at sunset, even presuming Triton’s Trident was still afloat and still keeping station off the southern shore.  No one could say what this day would bring but at least I could offer something to blunt the shears of Atropos:   my quiet Aid spell could only shield three souls but this was still something I could provide for Dain Rocksmiter, Halduamina and valiant Buddynock.  (**)

 

No one spoke, no one wanted too. We simply shuffled silently into position.  When fierce foes are lurking any Paladin can only take one place, but our brave Druid volunteered to stand beside me. Ahead lay the first hall,  Buddynock and I advanced with extreme care, the shadows falling back before our floating Driftglobe.   Our flighty wizard stood between his last two hirelings in the centre of our column and the final Abbey guard and acolyte also joined our ranks, for they were too scared of Ersalor to remain.  Even Skeen scampered forward, since a night’s rest had restored something of his spirits and he still disliked being separated from Dain.  

---

 (*)           I simply hope Death likes cats and spice drowned foods and speaks “LIKE THIS!”

 (**)         Noblesse oblige. When the need is there, the honourable attempt must be made.

 Any Hellenophile knows words of power, Muse kissed oratory fit for the Gods themselves, lines alive with the Fire of Helicon.  I tried, I tried my best, but alas, my attempt to inspire my comrades did not have the success I  aspired to.

 “So we’ve been beaten off once,”  I declaimed.  “Beaten off badly.”

                 Both Halduamina and Buddynock started to snigger!  Even Althea Liadon was smiling!

 “Is that worse than being beaten off well?” asked Buddynock, bright eyes wide behind his fogged brass goggles.

 By the Dog he cannot fool me!  I know, by now, when our Druid’s innocence is sheer sham and moonshine!    But why all the laughter?

                                                              -6-

Our stalwart Cleric and Halduamina were guarding the rear, for more cursed Spectres might well attack at any moment, floating through solid stone,  their ghostly fingers clawing for our throats.   Ersalor, the ‘cast now and consider questions later,’ might not be as safe as he thinks he is,”  sniffed Buddynock Rubyrubb.

 

 I just hoped we could rely on Bayleaf.  I hoped fervently.  This elven bard said little and saw much, and I did not care to examine his motives too closely, not now, not here, but this Bayleaf had wit and courage and his skilful arrows had felled one of our floating foes before it could escape. 

 

We advanced with all caution, faithful Wilson trundling at Buddynock’s heels, his one squeaking wheel plaintive as a morose mouse.  Shards of bone gleamed dully on the stone flagged floor and our hands tensed around our hilts until we were sure those undead Minotaurs would not be moving again.   Poor Geras Gerhardt lay in a blackened pool of blood, his severed head thankfully facing away from our gaze.   We saw nothing of that Bodak, just rotting fragments of its garments, a last few rags as they faded from this world. There was no sign of aged Mandos, no trace of his footsteps in the dust.   Nothing stirred, nothing moved,  but blessed be the name of divine Athene for I sensed what waited before us in the dark.  Dead Mord Sark stood there calm as an empty gibbet, his back turned, his long arms hanging empty at his sides.    I was bawling out a warning even as he turned, even as we saw the aching hunger in those empty eyes.  So, those slain by a Bodak become bodaks themselves in turn!

 

The creature rushed upon us arms outstretched.  We averted our gaze, our shields braced, the bodak charged home heedless of risk or wounds,  its demonic hands, those long snaking fingers clawing at our arms. Buddynock’s scimitar was a blur of light as he cut and slashed,  I clubbed down with Talon’s hilt, dashed one quillon at the Bodak’s face then stabbed with shortened sword.  We heard a whistling noise like the wind rushing from a tomb, heard the alarm of our comrades behind us, a careful arrow loosed by Bayleaf broke and skittered harmlessly off the floor.  The bodak’s chill hands were draining the life from our bodies, I was choking, gasping for breath.  I called on Pallas Athene, I turned the creature back, my words, her divine power! Oh by high snow-crowned Olympos our terrifying foe finally knew fear itself!

 

Some enemies cannot be granted chivalry or quarter.  We had a minute and we spent our time well.  While the bodak still crouched quivering by the far wall, we surrounded it, counted aloud carefully, raised our blades and struck.  The creature that once had been Mort Sark lay still upon the stone, a moment later only its tattered cloak remained.

 

Twelve of us, not counting faithful Wilson and Ettel, crowded the chamber,  and we kept careful watch as Ersalor and Halduamina searched walls and floor for any hidden doorway.  A square room, thirty by thirty feet, empty of all but dust, spilled blood and bones.  Yet old Mandos had still walked from this room somehow and we had all heard the rumours; this mysterious Winding Way must surely begin somewhere near.   Althea and Sigmund were muttering over the rumours of fantastic treasures hidden deep within these twisting tunnels, a fortune in gems and gold, artefacts of arcane power, wealth beyond a dragon’s dreams.

 

Ersalor smiled with smug satisfaction, for a night’s rest had clearly worked miracles on his sense of self belief.  We heard a rumble of stone, saw five feet of the  eastern wall fold back, felt a chill breeze blowing from an open grave. For good or ill, whether life or death awaited us, now surely we had found The Winding Way. The air in these tunnels was cold as winter, we neither saw nor heard a single trace of life, nothing at all beyond some straggling moulds and lichen along walls which ran with moisture like some submerged ship sinking ever deeper. Our driftglobes floated obediently, their golden light a last reminder of bright noon and warm skies.  We paused, exchanged glances, nodded and crossed the threshold.

 

We could have been a last warm breath moving through a corpse.  The shadows almost seemed solid, they gave back at our approach only to press closely at our heels as we walked ever deeper into the Winding Way.  I could sense no more lurking Undead and now wary Halduamina took the lead, little Ettel his celestial otter familiar walking lightly at his side, her snub nose craning forward, her whiskers quivering.  Ten feet in and we came to a crossroads and there was still no sound save our beating hearts and careful footsteps. No one spoke, no one dared to. 

 

Halduamina froze with his right hand raised, then pointed down to a dull bronze wire stretching taut across the passage at ankle height.  Our careful Rogue pulled a folding steel stick from his pack, attaching a round mirror in a clamp at the far end.  Halduamina knelt, his arms outstretched, scanning walls and floor, the ceiling too, muttering to himself as he counted off feet and inches.  Time was ticking by but even Ersalor had the wisdom not to hurry our companion.  Halduamina’s mage hand floated forward grasping a pair of pincers.  We heard the sharp snick from ten feet away.  The severed wire sang and the wall spat a fountain of flame.

 

“At face level too,”  mused Buddynock.  “Well for all of you at least.  Cheery types.”

 

“I’m sure they go to any lengths to welcome uninvited guests,” sniffed tall Althea.  “Or heights.”

 

“Heel Wilson!”  Our Druid threw a polished rivet into his bucket.  “You stay close to Daddy!”

 

Halduamina bade us hold fast, then he turned to the twisting northern passage which turned back to the west after barely ten feet.  Our Rogue’s keen wits again saved his life.  We heard him suck air back over his teeth, heard him utter a curse in black Orcish.  “A section of floor is mere illusion.  An open pit lies beneath;  half filled with green slime.”

 

“Do we need to cross?”  sniffed Ersalor.   By the Dog, so even this arrogant Wizard could speak with SOME respect when he had to.

 

“Not now, not yet,”  grunted Halduamina.  “The tunnel beyond only runs another five feet and ends in a door.  We can always return if we have to but I see no need for acrobatics right now.   I’m marking the floor so pay heed.” 

 

The northern tunnel was blocked, the southern spur too.  Halduamina paused, considered then turned to the east  (*)

---

(*)           “He paused, I know he did.” Dain Rocksmiter was doing his best to assist, using all his dwarven stone cunning to study the tunnels around us.  “How is Halduamina deciding which way to try?”

 

                “Spinning a coin?” beamed Buddynock.  “No only joking.”

 

“I did see something flash in the air,” I said thoughtfully.  “But no, no, I am quite sure Halduamina has his own well-judged reasons for choosing any particular turning.”

 

“Yeah, it’s called head or tails!” said Druid Rubyrubb.

                                                                                    Thieves’ symbol for a deadly trap

                                                                  -7-

We entered the Abbey cellar down those central stairs and faced the remaining acolytes and their  guards in that central chamber flanked by smaller rooms.  A secret door behind hanging tapestries led to The Winding Way as we fought a path through foul Undead and fiendish traps to find the secret of this forsaken Abbey of the Isle.

Twelve of us entered The Winding Way.

Four of us never saw daylight again.

 

 

         Our Rogue led us forward to where the eastern tunnel turned due north with two doors set into the corner.  “Mage hand?” I asked.  “If they are not too heavy?”

 

“You bet your bodkins!” Halduamina was so absorbed he spoke almost absently. “Everyone back now.  Move!  I want space for this.” 

 

Our wary Rogue was wise.  These stone doors were clearly balanced to perfection for each swung back on its pintles the moment Halduamina’s floating mage hand turned the handle.  Five darts were spat into space from behind the first door; each shattered harmlessly against the opposite wall but we all saw the dark green venom seeping from their shafts.  The second door handle triggered a stone fist lunging like a battering ram. The granite fist shot clean through the mage hand and sent chips flaking from the wall beyond.    Nothing else lay behind the doors.

 

“Anyone know any cheery ditties?” asked Buddynock.  “Some happy close harmony singing might do us all the world of good.”

 

“Unless the sound activates even more traps,” said Dain.

 

“Dirty pool!” exclaimed our Druid.  “And I know at least sixteen Forest Gnome folksongs that would raise anyone’s spirits.  Most have actions too.  Humorous ones!”

 

Dain Rocksmiter concentrated fiercely on watching for marauding Spectres from the rear.

 

Halduamina turned northward again, his pale eyes intent as he scanned the corridor ahead; it ran twenty feet before branching left and right.  Knife Catcher “They calls me Lonely” Skeen moved alongside him Dain’s magic Pole of Collapsing clenched in both hands.   I caught Buddynock’s eye.  Our Druid shrugged.  (*)

 

Skeen patted the corridor ahead, then at Halduamina’s direction prodded the ceiling and ran the end of the pole against both walls.  Nothing was triggered or summoned, no threat to life and limb, no risk or danger.  Halduamina nodded and little Ettel scampered forward, low to the ground, bright eyes gleaming.   The breaking wire sang like a sundered bowstring, the stone block dropping from the roof sent jagged shards flying from the floor.  Not even a great helm and bascinet could have saved anyone underneath; little Ettel was dispelled back to the celestial plain.

 

“Someone down here does not know about playing nicely with others,” said Buddynock Rubyrubb.  Halduamina cursed, sighed and summoned his familiar once again. The corridor before us ran west and east.  Dain used our new Bless scroll on Halduamina, Buddynock, and, after an insistent nod from me,  Knife Catcher Skeen.  It would not last for long but our Rogue needed all the help we could give. Wary Halduamina found another section of illusory floor to the west, the pit beneath was ten foot deep and six across, the bottom lined with sharpened stakes.  We could traverse the trap if we had to,  just like at Tresendar Manor, but it was better to leave such acrobatics until we had no other choice.   It would only take a few spectres launching an ambush to leave half the party impaled and screaming on those vicious spikes.

---

(*)           I admit to being surprised, but I don’t think Dain could take any more  ‘Mr Dain, Mr Dain!  You’re wonderful to me Mr. Dain!’    Was Buddynock trying not to smile?

 

“Skeen is a bit on the … “  I faltered, trying to be tactful.

 

“Unctuous as a bent bishop on the earhole?” asked our Druid.

 

“Is Skeen moving forward for fear of spectres? No,” I said. “Surely not?” 

 

“Unless he just wanted a chance to grasp Dain’s extending pole?”  By the Dog, Buddynock can look most innocent to anyone who does not know him.   Or try to at least!

                                                                  -8-

Halduamina looked to the eastern way once more.  He paused again, urged Skeen back,  our Rogue was poised like a hunting hound hot upon the scent.  I heard his words, his request made sense and I passed that fallen ceiling stone forward.  Halduamina staggered under the weight and for a moment I thought he would drop it, but our determined Rogue shifted his grasp, swung the segment back, then sent that heavy block flying forward down the tunnel.   One moment the stone flagged floor was there, a heartbeat later and two hinged slabs dropped back to reveal another hidden pit.  The pivoting floor rose back almost instantly, and the passage ahead suddenly seemed whole and harmless once again!

This pivoting floor trap claimed no one but it was only too easy to imagine how close we came.  I saw what lurked in the bottom of this hidden pit.  Even the strongest warrior, most puissant mage or terrible dragon rightly fears any swarm of ravenous Rot Grubs.

Halduamina never took his eyes off the passage ahead, he stood, staring intently at the darkened tunnel, examining each angle, considering every  possibility.  Our comrade knew his trade, he tried so hard, truly no one could have done more.  Now Halduamina called for two iron spikes and a hammer to lodge them home.  He inched forward, he stepped so carefully, but when he moved we heard another severed wire singing like a harp string.  Death himself does not wield a scythe more deadly, the curving blade swept out and down,  Halduamina somehow saved himself, the razor sharp steel almost kissing his body as it swung, but we heard a shrill scream from Lonely Skeen, a cry cut short and two heavy thuds.  Even Dain’s Blessing had not been enough to save him. Skeen’s severed body fell to a floor suddenly bathed in blood.   Halduamina stood helpless with horror, hands limp at his sides.  Just then, the spectre attacked.

Knife Catcher Skeen never knew what killed him.

Death in battle is savage enough but this … this !

 

Althea Liadon stabbed home with shortened sword but her blade barely pierced that floating shroud and her shrill scream echoed in our ears as the spectre’s cold fingers closed about her arm.  Gruff Grom bellowed instructions and Dain’s axe bit home but this fell spectre only tightened its death grip about poor Althea.   Nimble Bayleaf had an arrow nocked but no clear line. Wizard Ersalor was only interested in pushing past blonde Sigmund to safety.  I had already turned that bodak and was too far away to hurl Holy Water.

 

We heard Dain curse as the twisting spectre flowed around his axe blade, Althea Liadon was still fighting, still resisting but her face was grey as gravestone, her dark eyes bulging, her flesh withering under that remorseless grip.  She was forced to her knees, barely alive, as Dain Rocksmiter bellowed his battle cry, sweeping his rune axe clean through that spectre.  The floating shroud reared back, finally loosing its hold on poor Althea, stout Dain swung home again and that foul Undead finally faded and died. A few moments more and Althea Liadon would have perished, but Dain had no chance now to cast Revivify upon Knife Catcher Skeen, his sea faring days were done.   We all walked through his lifeblood as we moved ever deeper along the terrible Winding Way

Any prudent cleric delays their prayer of healing until many are injured: this is only right for such potent magic must be preserved until the need is truly great. Any Paladin’s hands can heal and yes,  I eased the worst of Althea’s injuries, but I did not employ all of my skill, not now, not yet.  No Paladin should leave anyone lingering in pain but just like Dain,  I dared not exhaust my powers too soon.  Burrowing rot grubs are  only slain by flames, or magic which cures disease.  How many more pits lay in wait for us?  What else was lurking down these terrible tunnels?

 

Halduamina was busy with his turnscrew.  We heard the ringing crash as the dripping blade detached and fell to the floor.  Only the harmless shaft swung now and our furious Rogue kicked the blood stained scythe into the concealed pit.  Next Halduamina hammered two iron spikes into the hinged stone flags, we could walk safely now but I admit to holding my breath as I stepped upon that treacherous floor.

 

This longer tunnel ran due east. We found no further traps but the passage opened into some larger chamber ahead.  Light gleamed, cold, unearthly, but light! Halduamina’s keen ears heard movement.   I called on divine Athene’s grace, I sensed a zombie ahead, but bigger, fiercer than any we had ever faced before.  And more foes besides, waiting hungry in those shadows.  One, no two of those filthy ghasts.  First rot grubs now ghouls,  both so capable of devouring even the strongest wizard or warrior given a chance.

 

We  dowsed both Driftglobes and waited , the breath taut in our throats while our brave Druid took the form of a small climbing lizard with staring eyes and curious bulbous toes.  Little Buddynock scouted ahead so many times, but waiting for his safe return never grew easier.  Our friend would not risk touching the floor, but surely, surely the walls would have to be safer?

 

“I don’t mind you placing bets,”  Druid Rubyrubb tried to sound nonchalant.  “So long as you do nothing to shorten the odds!  And, by the way, let’s have a bit of accurate reporting.   This is a gecko!”

The tunnel ahead widened into a chamber.  I could sense the Undead waiting in the shadows but what was gleaming despite the dark?

The narrow passage widened into a chamber fifty feet square, bare and barren and cold as a midwinter ice house.  A zombie ogre stood staring vacantly into space, it’s hide shroud grey, jutting jaws open, its one remaining eye white as snow.  It clutched a vast spiked morningstar that looked capable of shattering any castle drawbridge with one swing.

“Don’t quite see Mr. Frisky welcome at any polite séance,”  said Buddynock Rubyrubb.

 

 

Had the two ghasts sensed us?  We would never know.  Was Buddynock trying to signal?  I saw his tail rising, a hind leg waved,  but we heard impatient chanting from Ersalor, the wizard raised both hands, we glimpsed a living spark spurting from his fingers.  It sped down the passage, swift as thought, gleaming, glowing, I recalled that scroll Celmar used at far off Thundertree, the spell that drove dread Venomfang from his lair, but there was no time now to bellow any warning.  Ersalor’s fireball spell burst in the chamber ahead in livid roaring flame.  Buddynock!  (*)

---

 

(*)           All adventurers know the tropes about wizards.

 

                At least those adventurers who survive and had a clear view of the debacle.

 

                Those whispers about Wizards and their hasty fireball spells are alas, ALL TOO well founded!

                                                              -9-

Bestial roaring raged from the shadows, we were rushing forward, swords drawn.  The two ghasts lay twitching on the floor, their grey flesh still burning.  The ogre zombie was charred and blackened, but still on its feet, still charging.  Wise Dain seized Ersalor before the foolish mage could send any second fireball exploding into our faces.  Brave Buddynock was scuttling down toward us, his fine scales singed; Halduamina sped a cunning arrow, Sigmund Hartman’s throwing axes bit deep. I caught the raging zombie’s morningstar on my shield and Lightbringer smashed home against its knee.  The ogre zombie, lurched tripped and Bayleaf the Bard sent a long arrow clean through its eye.    All the Undead were down, none would be moving again.

The claws of any ghoul or ghast paralyse whenever they touch living flesh.

They paralyse and then they feed.

We never forgot that desperate stand in the smelting room of dead Phandelver.

Ersalor swept forward into the chamber like some stately carrack under full sail.  His face resembled a ship hard aground on the rocks when we realised this large room was empty save for that crystal Minotaur statue against the far wall.  It would have been pleasant if Ersalor had acknowledged our skill in slaying the last Undead or made even a murmur of apology to startled Buddynock!

 

“Is that prestidigitating pillock even partially on our side?” Our singed Druid was in Gnomish form once more. I heard his outraged whispers to Halduamina. “He did KNOW I was up ahead?  You DID tell him?  I felt like the tavern braised special for a moment!”

 

“Good job you’ve got competent cloacal control,” said our Rogue.

 

“Not entirely sure about that!” replied Buddynock.  “Not anymore! Nearly dropped more than me bleedin’ tail back there!”

 

We would have to check this chamber with care and diligence, we would have to be sure there was no hidden doorway, ceiling hatch, or tunnel under the floor, but at first glance the only way forward was that passage opening immediately behind that towering crystal statue.  “Call me jumpy if you choose but I would really rather not just walk up to it and peer closely with my magnifying lens.”  Halduamina spoke with airy grace but no one disagreed.  Ersalor had a brief interchange with his two remaining hirelings.  His order was brisk: their reply was blunter.   After examining the wall behind us we shook ourselves into a two deep line: archers and mage behind a wall of braced shields, lit Driftglobes bathing the room in light.  I nodded to our Druid.

 

Little Buddynock does not often use his sling but “it’s certainly handy for getting a punter’s attention,” explained our Druid. “Especially if I whang anything  “humorous.”  A lead slingshot whistled through the air and we saw fragments of bright crystal flying into space.  We also saw the crystalline Minotaur suddenly charging towards us, horns gleaming, great axe raised.

 

We sidestepped the charge, we all lashed back at the rushing statue, yet every time our blades bit home we sent vicious shards of smashed crystal scything through the air.  The Abbey guard and acolyte were beaten to the ground, injured Althea shrank back bleeding, the statue tossed Sigmund Hartman into the air as its axe cut through Dain’s shield and cuirass.   “Prudent” Ersalor fell back still loosing small firebolts, our wounded were trying to crawl clear.  Buddynock was injured too now, I felt blood running inside my armour.   There was no escape, no chance to retreat, but we were saved by faithful Wilson!   The automaton bucket was buckled and splintered, his iron bands bent, his handle snapped, yet Wilson kept shooting force bolts against the crystal Minotaur even as he shielded little Buddynock from a vicious axe swing.  We were all injured, all struggling to stand, but the tide was turning, slowly, slowly, Wilson saved the day.  The shattered hulk of the crystal Minotaur sank to the ground before us, the last shards splintering into ruin on the stones, each twinkling like a starfield in the light from our floating Driftglobes. (*)

 

We lived; we all did. Just.  A few moments more and there would have been further lonely graves on the Isle. We rested an hour; time was pressing but we had too.  Even when Dain cast his Prayer of Healing twice, we were all still battered and bruised from this venture.  Wilson activated his self-repair function but it would take more than one day for Buddynock’s bucket to be truly whole again. At least now the path ahead seemed clear but the acolyte and guard from the Abbey simply refused to go further.   Despite the risk of more wandering spectres both men insisted on remaining in this chamber for our return.   Only a fool would trust Bayleaf the Bard easily but I was still glad, he at least still accompanied us.  His bow and clear wits had proved their worth.

---

 

(*)           All of us save Ersalor the … “careful!”

                                                              -10-

The Crystal Minotaur statue of The Winding Way

It seemed innocuous at first.  A creation of sublime skill, a statue fit to grace an Emperor’s Garden“

Yes, yes but we’ve already twigged EVERTHING down this bloody dungeon is actively trying to kill us!” exclaimed Halduamina.

 

“And don’t give me any malarkey about being a vandal,” added Bddynock.  “If I’d not given old Twinkly Taurus the gee up, we would have been FAR closer when he went fast and frolicsome!

                So we inched forward once more, Halduamina out in front, his keen eyes seeking for any sign of further traps and snares in this maze of junctions and dead ends.  The passage wound like the intestines of some great stone behemoth, our Rogue found a false door rigged to spit poisoned envenomed darts into the face of anyone turning the handle, next came another pit covered by an illusory floor and then a further false door which dropped an iron portcullis from the ceiling.  The perfect moment for spectres to attack with a party divided and helpless to help one another! 

 

                The way lay southward again, then west, then north, then west again.  “If Dwarf miners dug this out, they were on the piss and taking the piss!” muttered Buddynock.  Another doorway lay ahead and once again Halduamina employed all his thieves’ tools and floating mage hand to check the frame, threshold and lintel even before he turned to the stone door itself.  Only when our Rogue examined the wall opposite did he find any trap.  We fell back as Halduamina’s mage hand played over the handle. We heard heavy tumblers drop, a sharp snick and saw sulphurous vapours flooding the passage.  We did not advance again until the air was clear.

 

A forty foot square treasure room lay before us.  We saw chests and urns against the walls and stone strongboxes  in alcoves.  Some were smashed, some gaped open.  We saw gold coins and gleaming jewellery spilling free.  In the centre of the chamber stood a green jade statue of a beautiful elf maiden, as winsome as a first kiss in springtime.

 

“Mitts up everyone who was not born yesterday,” said our Druid.  “And yes, she might be very pretty but I am still going to whang another sling shot all the same.”

 

“Art appreciation certainly calls for strong nerves down here!” Dain Rocksmiter growled.

 

No hidden guardian attacked, no trap opened before us.  The time comes when adventurers must either risk stepping forward or simply retreat.   Ersalor lingered in the doorway. Dain and Halduamina, little Buddynock and Wilson, nimble Bayleaf, wounded Althea who had still not fully recovered from that foul spectre’s attack and dour Sigmund Hartman all stood before a chest or strongbox as I set my crowbar under the round plinth supporting that statue.

 

Sometimes it is only afterward we establish the exact sequence of events.   Even now I cannot be truly sure which did happen first.  My comrades all realising  this treasure was nothing more than gilded wooden coins, iron rings painted silver and carved coloured glass or that jade statue suddenly growing fangs as the delicate face contorted with fury and the construct creature leaping on me,  hidden talons clawing at my face.

 

The vampire statue moved in a blur of claws and gaping teeth.  Our numbers counted for nothing, the creature was fighting each of us at once, this blood reaper moved with such speed and grace it almost seemed to dance around our blades.    Wilson’s force bolts again smashed home but the creature injured each of us in quick succession, its fell powers draining the very life from our bodies.  Dain unleased Guiding Bolt after Guiding Bolt but the construct showed no iota of damage.  Anyone alone would have been overpowered in a few heartbeats, we were all fighting desperately, the speed of this creature was terrifying, not to mention the thought Ersalor might send a fireball into this small chamber at any moment!

 

One moment the vampire jade statue was trying to strip the flesh from our faces, the next it fell to the floor, twitched and lay still.  Dain cast his final Prayer of Healing for the day and by kindly Asclepios we sorely needed his skill, for now we all heard the stealthy footsteps pattering down the tunnel behind us.

---

 

(*)           Well, slaying all of us along with the statue would leave Ersalor alone to face The Winding Way!

                                                              -11-

 

“I just wonder who the model was,”  mused Halduamina.

 

“And did the sculptor ever catch her on a really bad day!” added Dain.

 

 

 

 

 

There was no other way out of this chamber, we fell back facing the entrance, fell back bracing ourselves for whatever might emerge, stood ready, fists firm around our swords and saw the laggard servants of the Abbey tiptoeing towards us.  The experience of waiting in that desolate chamber of the Minotaur had proved more than their nerves could stand, even rejoining us was preferable. (*)

 

One strongbox remained and once again we gave wily Halduamina clear ground to work. Our Rogue disarmed a poisoned needle in the handle and a bladder spewing more toxic gases. Alas for all fond hopes, the chests contained nothing but old rags and fragments of metal together with a crumpled piece of parchment, mildewed at the edges with a message scrawled in Common

"Dear thief: A lot of work for nothing, wasn't it?"  (**)

 

                Was this truly the end to all our hopes and labours?   No, surely no.  If there was any chance the portal to dread Tharizdun lay here we had to press onwards, we had to be sure. In any case, what of that priest who walked headlong into this winding deathtrap, yes, where was old Mandos?  We had seen no sign of his body, no bones  or evidence those terrible ghasts had fed.  We simply had to search on, we had to be sure and thanks to Dain Rocksmiter’s dwarvish skill we found another secret opening in the eastern wall.  Another passage lay before us, ending in two more doors.  Did Halduamina spin his lucky coin again?  I cannot say,  but we took the southern first and found ourselves walking a further tunnel, first south, then eastward then due north again until a very final dead end.  We found another wire dropping a stone block from the ceiling, another swinging scythe trap, another pit covered by an illusory floor and this was the most terrible of all,  for the bottom seethed and rippled with movement.  Our Driftglobes revealed a restless sea of those filthy rot grubs; I have never set oil flasks ablaze with greater delight.

 

                Little Ettel triggered another flame spout and sadly our resourceful Rogue would not be able to summon her again today.  The rope we had around Halduamina saved him when more of the floor proved to be hinged and the pit below yawned with steel spikes.  Once again, we waited until the hinged lid sprang back and hammered it closed with iron wedges, we may have used more than strictly necessary but even strong nerves grow ragged over time and we just wanted to be sure.  This spur of The Winding Way ended in another door and another ballista rigged to fire straight down the passage.  We have never been so indebted to our Rogue’s skill; he could not save poor Skeen but Halduamina had seen the rest of us safely through this terrible place.

 

Only one door remained.  We retraced our steps and stood before this final threshold.   Once he was satisfied, Halduamina Half Elf swung the door wide and we entered a chamber like nothing we had seen before.  Walls, floor and high ceiling were all plated with black iron.  “Ware lightning bolts!” warned Dain his eyes wide.    We saw two massive granite pillars in the centre and bales, stone chests and urns against the walls.  The very air was shimmering but we felt no heat, we struggled to see, we peered closer, we saw two motionless humanoid forms cast from the same dark iron as the walls. 

---

 

(*)           After the repeated sniggering of both Halduamina and Buddynock I no longer employ the phrase “we waited, braced for action, our weapons displayed.”

 

                Dain Rocksmiter still refuses to explain their merriment.

 

(**)         Ersalor’s face could be truly termed “a picture”  but “not one for any baby hobbit friendly nursery!” said Buddynock.

 

                “We are also hoping for treasure too,” Halduamina reminded our Druid mildly.

 

                “Yeah, well.  That wizard is still a cocky, arrogant, careless, vicious git!” said Buddynock Rubyrubb. “And he clearly makes minimum outlay on pensions.” 

  -12-

Each stood seven foot high with both arms held aloft. Each clutched an iron sword in one fist and a heavy maul in the other. Neither had faces, their heads were simply round balls of steel with a single, central glowing eye.  One moment they stood motionless, the next they attacked. No words could stop them, they were remorseless as a Remorhaz and they paid no heed to our blades.  Their arms lashed out like storm driven windmills as we surrounded each of them, ducking their pitiless onslaught to rain blows against their iron shells.

 

Alas, though Wilson’s force bolts had proven most potent against those previous statues, our bucket automaton enjoyed no advantage here. Our attacks were barely denting their armoured hides, though we saw sparks flying whenever our blows landed and Dain’s last Guiding Bolt burst home in a blinding ball of light.  These living statues simply stood defiant amid us all, wielding their blades and mauls like some threshing machine running berserk. 

 

Once again ‘gallant’ Ersalor was loosing small firebolts from the doorway while the rest of us plied our weapons with desperation.  Each of us was injured now; indeed I thought my shield arm almost broken by even a glancing blow of that steel shod maul.  Suddenly we heard a catch release, suddenly these living iron statues were both spinning at the waist, arms now perpendicular to their torsos.  Their blades cut through us all; their hammers sent us flying like chaff in a gale.  Each of us was hurt, even little Buddynock for these arms rose and fell like the plunging sea.  Wounded Althea Liadon fell helpless to the floor; the last Abbey acolyte lay cut clean in two, that final Abbey bodyguard was crushed inside his own armour as the whirling maul sent him spinning into the steel walls.  Dain had no chance to use Revivify, none at all, not with those spinning arms spiralling around us.   

These iron statues began to slow; their arms rose up again. They were still raining blows on us, still cutting through shields and hauberks with those long swords, still crushing bones with those weighted mauls but they were not spinning, not now, not yet, but we all heard an ominous clicking filling the chamber.  We redoubled our efforts; we could do no more.  I called on divine Lady Pallas one last time, Dain wielded Grom with doughty skill, we felled one living statue at last, it crashed to the floor like a stricken oak.  We were all hurt badly now, all exhausted and the last iron guardian still stood defiant amongst us, still fulfilling its orders even though its carapace was dented and scarred.  We did not, dared not stop until this second living statute lay as still as the first and we saw the last light drain from that great single eye. Even as this construct died, we heard that ominous death watch clicking finally cease and saw those mighty steel arms starting to shift once more.  A moment later would have proved too late. We leaned forward on our blades sobbing for breath.

 

Two more of us had fallen to The Winding Way. There was nothing we could do for our fallen save cover them decently and prepare a pyre of oil flasks, but only after we ensured that steel door behind us was firmly wedged open. Better use three brace of iron spikes than risk the alternative.  Down in this drear place at least.

 

                And, finally, at last, Ersalor was happy.  Well, to a degree. We had found the famed treasure of  The Winding Way: five hundred gold crowns or thereabouts and 1200 silver coins. Five bolts of fine silk, plain, no patterns or colouring and a small kist of gems and jewellery which looked worth at least 1000 gold pieces.

 

A bag of holding and two potions of healing were also amongst the spoils but nothing compared to the set of full plate, dwarven sized, which shimmered softly and showed no sign of rust or damage despite the damp.  Dain Rocksmiter’s eyes gleamed with wonder, I swear his fingers were actually trembling as he pulled off his gauntlets of ogre strength, and shyly, gently, leaned forward to caress the cuirass.  “Mithril! By dauntless Durin and mighty Marthomir Duin, by the halls of far off Moria, by deft Sindri and Brokkr forgers of great Mjölnir, this is mithril!”

 

“So now we know what midwinter gift for Dain come Hogswatch Night,” whispered Buddynock.

 

“Half the weight of full plate harness and immune to all natural damage.”  I smiled with satisfaction at my friend’s delight, but I own to feeling a little envy too.

 

“And no more clanking noises as he walks!”  Halduamina grinned, but I know how frustrated our Rogue feels whenever his comrades cannot match his own stealthy tread. 

 

Our conversation was light but our eyes were watchful.  Ersalor had been husbanding his magic, we knew that for certain, and this vicious mage might not be happy with just these spoils.  Ersalor had already ensorcelled us once, back there on the dunes, and we were wary and ready for him now.  Elven Bayleaf was also an unknown quantity and his skill with a bow or a bardic spell was only too apparent.  We had fought side by side with wounded Althea Liadon and Sigmund Hartman, but would that count for anything as our quest drew to an end?  Were we truly done, was this all The Winding Way had to boast?  There was still no sign of any dread portal to foul Tharizdun.  And where was old Mandos?

 

Some thoughts truly tempt the Fates.  Sigmund Hartman was  striding through the centre of the chamber.  Just where he stepped, we can never be sure, not now.  One moment he was there, long plait falling to his shoulders, a heartbeat later and we heard a piercing shriek and the doorway back to the tunnels was replaced by a solid wall of iron.  

 

All the lights died.  All the lights, our Driftglobe and Althea’s lantern too, this was darkness visible, utter abyssal blackness, even our Darkvision counted for nothing. Sigmund Hartman screamed once more, shrill and high, choking and sobbing, one scream more and no sound ever again.

 

Cries came from all around the square chamber, voices which suddenly seemed a long bowshot away. We heard a grinding rumble; heard terrified shouting the iron walls were moving.  I was frantically coaxing my floating Driftglobe back to life, Dain Rocksmiter tried to cast his flame cantrip, but nothing worked, nothing and the dark kept closing all around us. The stone stair appeared from empty air.  Barely six steps, all carved from black basalt.  We heard the grinding growing louder, the metal floor was trembling, those iron walls were moving nearer!  There was no escape, no other way out, by grim Typhon what other choice did we have?    We leapt forward, Buddynock scooping Wilson into his pack; these worn steps stretched barely six feet, they led to nowhere but they were stone, solid stone, they might yet shield us.    

 

                There were only six steps, just six but we found Sigmund Hartman lying dead across the stairs, his face sunken, skin withered and ancient, his blond hair dull with age, his staring eyes stark with terror.  There were only six steps, just six, but we found ourselves atop a square tower surrounded by a waist high wall.  The cold left  us struggling just to breathe, we could have been plunged bodily into arctic ice. 

 

We were  thousands of feet high, a sheer abyssal drop on every side.  We sensed  monstrous shapes moving in the blackness, great wings beating.  Suddenly there were stars above us, but these were no constellations we knew.   I glanced behind and the stairs had vanished.  A fitful purple light began to glow from the centre of the turret, shadows flickered and danced, moving at the very edge of our sight. Mandos the old priest lay still upon the stones, his body shattered by some massive impact, dead with both his thumbs dug deep into his eyes.  And we saw jagged spirals carved into the stone; we saw a towering image of Blind Tharizdun himself, chained yet fighting to be free, insane, yet cunning, full of life, yet death incarnate.  

Light will fade, hope fail, chaos will reign supreme.

Eternal darkness awaits for all, pain without end,  death a withheld  mercy.      

Your doom awaits.  Kneel, weep and make ready.

The inscription was stark

The sigil of Dread Tharizdun

I could hear screaming inside my skull, I saw Dain’s eyes widen with pain, heard Halduamina gasping, Buddynock fervently reciting the names of familiar flowers and herbs.  I glanced over the low parapet, glanced once and did not dare to look again.  The tower rose sheer, the stone as smooth as glass, this turret looked grown not built, the angles, the geometry were all wrong.  There were only six steps, only six, they had vanished and we were suddenly thousands of feet high.  The cold almost seemed alive;  we could feel the life being drained from our bodies, we could not survive this, we could not last long.  I was struggling to move my fingers now,  my nose and ears were numb. And old Mandos lay dead upon the stones, his body crushed, but his thumbs buried deep within his own eyes.

 

                Shrill cries echoed in the skies, great bodies moved in the hungry dark.  There was no way back, no escape and each moment that feral cold bit home.  We saw five bronze levers fixed to the floor, each green with age and corroded, each so cold to the touch I feared leaving my ripped skin bonded to the metal.  Each lever was a different colour:  one black, one yellow, a blue lever, a red and a green and each gave slightly as we touched the freezing handles.   Why did two make sounds?  Why a buzzing noise and a roar?  Only then did we see the words set deep into the stones.

 

Fierce sounds for a second

A primary first helps open the door

Sad the last lever

After the second flies humble or bumble

 

There are times I am more proud of my comrades than I can ever possibly convey. We were dying, we knew that, we were marooned in a dimension of horrors, yet we did not panic, did not break down and wait wide eyed for the end.  We fought this riddle together as if we were facing down some devil’s horde shoulder to shoulder. Our blackened fingers were bleeding from the cold, our hands blue and painful, we could guess from Mandos’ broken bones what would happen should we move these levers in the wrong order.

 

                “A primary first.  That could be red or yellow or blue,” said Halduamina.

 

                “The last lever is sad, so the last must be blue,”  suggested Buddynock.

 

                Dain nodded.  “The red lever makes that roaring noise.”

 

                “And the yellow lever buzzes,” I added.

 

                “So red, black, then yellow, green and blue. Brace yourselves,” said Halduamina.

 

I honestly feared the corroded bronze would break under the strain but pouring oil from Dain’s Jug of Alchemy worked wonders. Each lever moved in turn; each sank into their carved channels until only the coloured handle protruded. The six steps emerged from empty air; we were thousands of feet in the sky yet we could see that iron shod treasure room again, the debased Abbey of Procan was still there.   We leapt for the stairway; our limbs so cramped with cold we could barely move.  The purple glow was brighter now, our last glimpse of the tower was the carved frieze suddenly appearing  in plain sight, bas reliefs running all around the walls:  bodies flayed and eviscerated, bodies cowering and brutalised, deathless agony caught in stone.   Above that endless keening wind we heard a deep throated  laughter right behind us.  Laughter hungry and patient. And that first chained image of Tharizdun had changed; that first dark fresco had become a picture more terrible than anything we had ever seen before.  Not even that demonic Balrog was so foul. The next instant we stood in The Winding Way once more and those six stone steps had vanished.  

 

“No one touches ANYTHING!”  shouted Dain.   “Nothing!   Nothing at all!”

The Dark God, The Ebon God, He of Eternal Darkness, Lord of Decay, the Ender, the Patient One,

He Who Waits, the Anathema, the Father of Elder Evils, the Author of Wickedness, the Eater of Worlds,

the Despised, the Undoer, the Chained God, the Lost God

 BLIND THARIZDUN WAITS IN HIS CHAINS, WAITS AND SMILES

Warm blood returning to our toes and fingers was blissful agony. We could not quite believe we were still alive.  A portal yes, but still not the means for chained Tharizdun to escape, not quite. We had seen the dark dust falling briefly from the air, heard the rending roar as stones shrieked and ruptured.  That way was shut, but we knew how close death had come. Fatal cold, or stark insanity or some demon entity crawling through the darkness. Or some shattering spell if those levers had been set wrongly.  The same fell magic which broke poor blinded Mandos.

 

Only Bayleaf waited for us in that iron room. Even his mocking face was tired and drawn, even  this Elvish archer had found his limit.  Ersalor had gone, with Althea Liadon the very last of his hirelings, gone and taken the treasure with them.  That bag of holding had been all they needed.

 

                I cannot say this concerned me.  Our mission was achieved, this debased Abbey was explored and cleared, there was no freedom for Blind Tharizdun here. We had our answers, a few spell scrolls and Dain his magnificent mithril harness.  We were alive just, bruised and battered in both body and mind, but we were alive!  Deft Halduamina had also abstracted one choice diamond from the hoard without anyone realising and his gift gave Dain Rocksmiter one more chance to cast Revivify.  

 

                We poured Holy Water over the place where that terrible stairway had appeared and I cast a blessing over the stones.  Would that suffice?  Probably not but what else could we do and who could say for sure?  We did employ the last of our iron spikes in wedging closed the doorway to that metal room while our Rogue chalked another warning symbol on the floor.

 

                Retracing our path through The Winding Way took time for we still feared any trap we might have missed on our first journey.  We paused to light pyres for those last slain Abbey servants, and luckless, Lonely, Knife Catcher Skeen. There was no sign of Ersalor or Althea none at all.  The hours had sped by, this third day was nearly done,  we simply had to hope our ship still waited off the southern shore.  Alas we could not simply march to the beach and find out.  Those terrible sand dunes still held their deadly secret. Five hundred and more undead skeletons waited patiently beneath the surface for their prey.

               

                This could only take time but we had no other choice.  Buddynock Rubyrubb again took the form of a swift war horse and galloped onto those haunted sands, drawing our furious Undead foes to the surface once more. We knew their limits now and we were waiting behind the line they could not cross.  All Undead must be destroyed and no Undead are ever worthy of chivalry. I have never sped so many arrows before in anger.  We emptied our quivers, Bayleaf and I, together with the few score arrows we found in the Abbey stores.  I hurled those five spears from the armoury and hit my mark each time. Dain and Halduamina shot every bolt they possessed; our waiting Undead foes were an easy mark and we must have downed almost fifty even before Buddynock Rubyrubb used his remaining spells.  He reduced another immense skeletal juggernaut to shards and flinders by casting erupting earth, damaged a second then unleashed his booming thunderwaves, cutting a swathe through those packed ranks of hate and terror.   I borrowed his sling as Dain and Bayleaf passed me pebbles;  a half dozen more dead skeletons further evened the score.  If only we could have recovered our spent ammunition.

 

                The day was dying; the time had clearly come.  Over four hundred skeletons still held the dunes. We had no hope of reaching our ship unless we could clear these fatal sands. Halduamina Half Elf dashed his red corundum gem to the ground.  We head a crack like lightning, felt a gush of heat fitting for an iron works, saw billowing flames gout against the rock, flames which blazed with fury and suddenly coalesced into the form of a towering Fire Elemental, a living inferno which nodded to our Rogue, turned and faced the dunes.

Any Fire Elemental always makes an “uncertain ally” 

 

                We did not dare distract Halduamina for one instant.  Scowling in concentration, our Rogue directed the elemental against our undead foes.  The skeletons threw themselves forward without fear or hesitation, swarming like hungry ants, but each time the fiery creature seared through their lifeless forms to leave them still and blackened on the sand.

 

                A slow, deliberate task, and we did not dare set foot upon the dunes until the elemental had quartered every yard, leaving fused and blackened sand in its wake.  Yet at last we were done, at last the way was clear.  Our own stars were shining now and by the seven bright Pleiades we were thankful to see our own friendly constellations set firm in the heavens once more!   We were late, we knew that  and our ship was surely long gone, but we still had to see for ourselves.

 

                To our surprise Triton’s Trident still swung at her moorings, still five hundred feet out from the beach, her jolly boat swinging at her stern.  I exchanged glances with Dain.  We both held the same opinion of Captain Adumbert, he would honour a paid contract but scarcely risk his skin or ship by remaining far past the agreed time to sail.  We all lamented the lack of a spyglass now.  Nobody seemed to be moving on deck, as far as we could tell, but there was nothing to explain why Triton’s Trident still kept faithful station. None of us had any spells left,  I could not summon faithful Boreas again until morning.   Only Buddynock Rubyrubb could reach the ship and our valiant Druid took the shape of a stealthy octopus.  We did not even have a single arrow left to offer support.

 

                Buddynock slipped quietly into the surf, waved a farewell tentacle and swam resolutely to the ship, we saw his skin adopting the colour of the sand beneath, our comrade was taking every chance he could to approach unobserved.  I admit to a mistake now, an error which could have cost us dear.  We were so intent on watching little Buddynock, for even careful Bayleaf knew what was at stake, we forgot to leave any sentry scanning the beach behind us!  I can only say we were exhausted and fearful for our friend but such stupidity could so easily have damned us all.

Buddynock paused then floated free in the dappled moonlight,  swam then paused again, his dark eyes scanning both below and above the waves.  Our Druid sensed movement ahead, large shapes slipping through the sea, turning  and diving with easy grace.  Buddynock floated motionless in the moonlight dappled water, then rose imperceptibly eyes breaking the surface as he glimpsed a long curving neck, a fierce reptilian head, a gaping mouth with splayed sharp teeth.  Our Druid saw a bulbous body, four long diamond shaped flippers, a pointed tail.  “Oh Merry Anning!   Near to lizards but not quite!”

 

There was no sign of life aboard the ship but the patient plesiosaurs still waited. Dark, dried blood stained the deck of Triton’s Trident; at least one crewman had clearly been seized and these three great beasts were still hungry.   Even if Buddynock could have informed us we had no means to aid him.  Well, for all his wilful foolery our careful comrade is always swift with a shrewd scheme.  Experience enhances our abilities and now brave Buddynock assumed plesiosaur form himself, now he surged boldly towards those three huge reptiles. 

 

They sensed him in an instant and our Gnomish friend saw glaring eyes  gleaming through the water, long necks lunging forward as their great flippers swept the sea.  One plesiosaur circled Buddynock, another lurked below his pale scaled belly, the third stared snout to snout, teeth bared to tear and rip.  Our Druid was alone, quite alone between the ness and headland and not even brave Buddynock had any hope of fighting all three.  Our friend had no chance of escape, none at all, for our friend would need at least an hour’s rest before he could assume any other beast form again.  And still those cold eyes stared.

Whenever our Druid wildshapes he gains both the form and manners of each beast; their senses and their speech.  By Pan and green Sylvanos, I still recalled Buddynock joking with patient Flëck the Ox last year along the Triboar Trail!   Now Buddynock was communicating with these three savage plesiosaurs, a ’speech’ of gesture and movement and "closed-mouth vocalizations” he told us later.  “sounds emitted through the skin in the neck area while the mouth is kept shut!”

 

“Why hunt here?” asked little Buddynock, “when a raft with seventeen half drowned sailors is sinking only a mile away.  Too many sharks already closing around them but with four of us …”    Two hungry plesiosaurs immediately sped for the open sea, their long flippers flaying the water.   Only one remained and this last beast did not linger once Buddynock began to force it away from the ship, his glaring eyes rolled back, his long teeth snapping.  They were gone, at least for the moment, all three vicious plesiosaurs had vanished!

 

By some happy mercy the little jolly boat still swung at the stern, awash but afloat.  Buddynock severed the painter with one bite and slowly towed the small craft back to the beach.  It is fortunate indeed we had neither spells nor shafts left and I had found no stones amid the sand, for I still feel our reaction was understandable when that long serpent head suddenly reared out of the surf!

 

We plied our oars with a will, elven Bayleaf too for we could not leave even a dubious companion alone on this isle of death.  Buddynock was exhausted but still helped bale the jolly boat as we lumbered back to Triton’s Trident, all the while wondering if those three hungry plesiosaurs would suddenly surface beneath us.  I have  rarely ever felt so frightened, for the thought of one of those huge bodies overturning our small craft or looming out of the waves alongside, left me paddling furiously to speed us those long five hundred feet to the ship. Nimble Halduamina was aboard first to make us fast and by all the perils of Poseidon I sorely regretted this solemn duty for paladins to be last in any retreat! 

Our wildshaped Druid had no means of warning us first.

In all fairness any adventurer would fear the worst when THIS head suddenly reared out of the sea!

 

                Oh the relief to be standing upon that high deck once more!  Despite my best efforts it still took time to persuade Captain Adumbert and the first mate to actually open the cabin door.  We forgave them the crossbow bolt even if it did pass bare inches above Dain’s head. They had witnessed their crewmate suddenly snatched from the rudder and dragged to his death beneath the sea.  They has seen savage reptilian heads waving over the bulwarks, known huge bodies were brushing against the thin hull and felt their small ship heeling over as one plesiosaur even tried to climb aboard!

 

                At least our voyage home proved uneventful and we sailed straight into Saltmarsh.  The Council was summoned and we revealed as much as we considered safe.  Now the people of Saltmarsh could establish a light house and strong garrison on that small Isle  and any true followers of mighty Procan could rededicate that unhallowed ground.

 

Gellan Primewater expressed his thanks, but his voice was hesitant, almost faltering; his manner had changed so much since the murderous attacks aboard his luxury ship.  Anders Solmor  also seemed to have aged ten years since Skerrin Wavechaser betrayed them all.  Young Carmilla Fireborn was alive once more thanks to the  high priest at Seaton, yet she was still a shadow of her former self.

 

Only grasping Eda Oweland seemed unchanged for she was grumbling at paying death dues to the dependents of that sailor slain aboard Triton’s Trident.  “So much for righteous recompense for serving the Council,”  muttered Dain Rocksmiter. Trust an honest dwarf to expect all oathsworn contracts to be kept!  I certainly echoed my comrade’s sentiments, even if Mannistrad Copperlocks only ever thought of her precious mine. I am just  grateful that honest Eliander Fireborn ensured we received the agreed two thousand golden crowns for all our efforts.  That forsaken isle was clear, for the time being at least and Saltmarsh had a real chance to reclaim a lost strongpoint.      

                Sahuagin were still pressing hard against the coastline.  No one was safe, whether above or below the waves. Two more ships had failed to make port and the Saltmarsh harbour watch had slain two Sea Devil scouts at the cost of seven of their own.  By dark Ares loathed by Gods and Men alike, these Sahuagin are truly terrifying whenever they scent blood and fly into their feeding rage.  The corpses of those dead Saltmarsh militia were burnt before their families could witness their wounds.   Emissaries were still passing to and from the Lizardfolk, Tritons, Locathah and Aquan Elves and it seemed only days before there was an alliance between land and sea against our common foe. We continued to study those grammars provided by wise Sauvik of Dunwater for the time was coming when speaking some Draconic might mean life or death.  Copies of Sauvik’s primer had also been passed to Saltmarsh Council for our mutual needs were great and time was pressing.  Surely an alliance was near but who could say for certain.  I did not regret spending a hefty sum to buttress the door to Saltmarsh Orphanage with a solid piece of steel.

                                                                    

               We said farewell to Elven Bayleaf and I made sure he had some money in his purse.  Well, better to make sure he had enough coin to sustain himself until he found work than leave him destitute and looking for any means of surviving.  I have no doubt any tavern would have given him board and lodging to hear his songs.   I have no doubt his past was murky and his forward path might be equally dark but Bayleaf had stood by us and had committed no crime we were aware of.  In any case, which of us does not sometimes need a second chance?

 

                Thanks to Ersalor, light fingered as well as light on his toes, we had lost any treasure from the Isle, save a few spell scrolls and Dain’s magnificent mithril plate harness.   His former armour was finely wrought but this new panoply was truly wondrous to behold.  What is more, wily Halduamina had abstracted one choice diamond from that final treasure hoard, slipping it into his pouch before anyone saw.  There is a cost for catching Revivify and our Rogue’s great heart and great skill might well grant life to some poor unfortunate in days to come.

 

                We replenished our empty quivers and Halduamina invested in a climber’s kit with pitons and belays.  I also dug deep into my savings to finally purchase a spyglass.   I still shuddered to think of Buddynock Rubyrubb facing those three savage plesiosaurs alone when we could not even see the danger he endured.  With each quest our experience widened, our skills and expertise grew.  It is so wondrous to discover new powers, fresh mastery, such greater understanding of this convoluted world.  New dangers always arise and we must always meet them come what may.

BEING   an   END to BOOK XVIII

Spell Scroll         – Light                 - Ersalor 

Spell Scroll         – Command       – Dalmas

Spell Scroll         – Bless                 - Dain

Spell Scroll         – Hold Person – Buddynock

 

Mithril plate mail – Dain Rocksmiter

1 x 300 gp diamond for Party funds

Two thousand gold pieces from Saltmarsh Council for clearing the Isle of the Abbey.

 

We donated the weaponry from the Abbey to the Saltmarsh armoury. We feared they would  be needed all too soon.