Table of Contents

- Introduction

- 1 - Unrakul

- 2 - An Unwanted Encounter

- 3 - Ard Íseal

- 4 - The Meeting of Panfire

- 5 - The Temple of Morning Mist

- 6 - Of Songs and Doors

- 7 - The Ancient Ones

- 8 - An Apparition

- 9 - Rest of the High Priests

- 10 - Truth to Light

- 11 - The Beast Unleashed

- 12 - Rikkaz-Dûm

- About Guido Henkel

MAGIC OF THE GLASS MOON

by

GUIDO HENKEL

Published by Thunder Peak Publishing

Visit Guido Henkel’s official website at www.guidohenkel.com for the latest news, book details, and other information.

Copyright © Guido Henkel, 2018

Cover design by Lieu Pham, Covertopia.com

Ebook Formatting by: Guido Henkel

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

Introduction

I originally conceptualized the short story you are about to read as a supplement for a computer role-playing game I had been involved with some time ago. As part of the process, I had created an entire game world, conjured up the world’s history and lore, along with civilizations, languages, maps, locations and other content to fill that world with. All of it was carefully fashioned to realize a believable world the player would enter, where people had a past, where historic events had shaped migration and population patterns, and where geologic events had formed the landscapes, among other things.

Even though the player would never actually experience many of the events I designed and described in my original documentation, the content was always understood to serve as glue. To create a sense of depth and history that players could relate to and that would allow them to explore in the form of myths, legends, records, artifacts, locales, and characters. I wanted the world to be believable and in order to achieve that, it had to be alive. That was the reason for months and months of painstaking detail work on the backdrop.

I wrote this short story to give prospective players a very first glimpse at this world. It was supposed to be used as a teaser of sorts, something they would read and that would hopefully kickstart their imagination. Short enough for people to get through quickly, fast-paced and exciting enough to keep them engaged and make them curious. As a direct result, the story was never designed to offer a whole lot of universal background information or narrative depth. Quite the opposite, in fact. It was meant to raise questions about the world. It was merely scratching the surface. A first impression of things to come.

My plan was to provide a series of additional short stories over time that would either cover entirely different aspects of the world or that would more deeply delve into particular details. My involvement with the project ended some time ago and for that reason, I decided to offer “Magic of the Glass Moon” to the public. No need for it to languish on my hard drive. With its focus on the Dwarven culture I had designed for the game, it offers a rare glimpse into the world I had originally envisioned, where a massive meteor strike laid waste to the world in a cataclysmic event. It brought forth dark creatures from the depths of the earth and gave rise to an oppressive religious cult that enslaved entire nations. Led by zealots wielding the darkest of magic, vast swaths of the world fell under the Cruciati yoke.

With that in mind, I hope you enjoy “Magic of the Glass Moon,” even if it may be no more than a singular—and, admittedly, limited—glimpse at things that were meant to come.

1

Unrakul

“This is what we do with traitors.” The sweeping, grand gesture of Bandruf’s gnarled hand pointed towards the neatly-arranged rows of large ice blocks that sat in an orderly fashion on the plateau, high atop Mount Sefgâl. With the icy wind playing in his long, bushy hair, the dwarf turned and sternly held Thondur’s gaze. The leather of his heavy armor groaned with every movement, as each one of his breaths evaporated in a cloud before his lips.

Bandruf was one of the dwarf lords of the House of Bhalmir, sole rulers of Rikkaz-Dûm, the mountain realm that formed the south border to Uërland. His piercing dark brown eyes stood in stark contrast to his bushy light brown hair and greying beard. The tattoo of a symmetrical pattern graced his forehead but it was cleaved in two by a long and deep scar that extended from his hairline down to the root of his nose, between his excessively bushy brows. Two braided strands of hair framed his face, along with sideburns that were gathered in a series of mithril clasps reserved only for senior officials. But the real signs of his rank and stature within the dwarven society were the numerous mithril-lined tusks that served as the ends of his beard.

Bandruf noticed the frown of confusion on his fellow dwarf’s face, which spoke of utter incomprehension.

“Take a closer look,” he suggested.

Thondur took an almost timid step forward and approached the block of ice closest to him. His heavy armor gleamed from the last glaring beams of sunlight, that somehow managed to cut a sliver through the darkening clouds overhead. Its delicate engravings stood out in stark relief against the metallic plates in their enameled blue, green and pale, golden tones. Thondur’s armor had always been his pride. While polished and always meticulously aligned, it had taken years for him to perfect the engravings, to continually remove battle scars, and to have the runes enchanted for protection, strength and agility.

The enormous belt buckle was also a masterpiece of dwarven metalworks. Perfectly round and emblazoned with two crossed battle axes, it served as more than mere decoration. Secured by a lock that used the front of the buckle itself as a dial, it housed his personal stash: a pouch of his beloved fire-cured, longleaf tobacco; a handful of gold coins; and other knick-knacks.

With the snow crunching underfoot, Thondur came to a halt before the oblong, frozen block resting in the snow and looked down. The face of death stared back at him!

Fully encased in the perfectly clear ice lay the body of a middle-aged dwarf, dressed in naught but a rough linen tunic. Thondur was not entirely sure if, perhaps, the uneven refractions of the ice effected the appearance, but the clothing looked stained and torn. Yet it was not the presence of the body itself that set Thondur on edge. It was the stare. Eyes wide open, he found something unspeakably horrifying in the stare—the knowledge of being condemned to a fate of terror, forever.

If it hadn’t been for the pale complexion of the encased body’s skin, Thondur could have all but mistaken the man for being alive. Almost by instinct, his hand reached for and touched the ice. It was perfectly solid, with a light milky quality around its edges where powdery snow had begun to accumulate, only to be carried away by a harsh and relentless gusts of wind.

Forever under the open sky. Thondur could think of no worse fate. Forever forced to gaze upon the vastness of the skies and its stars. No stone to embrace you.

“You leave them up here? In the open?” he asked at long last.

“It is their penance,” Bandruf responded, firmly holding Thondur’s eyes.

“What did they do to deserve this?”

“Some were thieves, others traitors. There’s even a murderer among them. Each of them tried to hurt our House. Each of them betrayed our trust. Each of them was judged by our court, found guilty and executed. This is their penance.”

“It is unspeakable…the horror…a dwarf…forever under the open sky…”

“It is what they deserved. Never forget, they brought this upon themselves.”

Thondur had to tear his eyes away from the icy prison. He allowed his gaze to rove across the plateau once again, still imagining the terrors these dwarves must be suffering in their afterlives, so openly exposed to the elements.

“We call this place Unrakul,” Bandruf said. “What you are looking at is the result of a thousand years of justice. Their small number is testament to the fact that our justice system works. Dwarves do not steal from dwarves. We do not cheat each other and we do not betray each other. Here in Rikkaz-Dûm, we are men of honor, men of our word, and we expect no less from those who move among us.”

Thondur nodded solemnly. Bandruf was right. There were no more than fifty ice blocks on this plateau. And if these were truly all the criminals Rikkaz-Dûm had produced in a thousand years, the system was, indisputably, working well enough.

“Why are you showing this to us?” he asked, acknowledging his two companions with a nod, who had patiently stood aside without a word, without moving. Now, he signaled them to take a look for themselves.

“You are Khazâd. Dwarven. One of us, even though you’re not from these mountains,” Bandruf said. His bushy eyebrows were beginning to ice over and the braids of his beard were already covered in frost.

“But they…are outsiders…and elven blood, too.” Bandruf’s index finger shot out to point at one of the companions, a tall woman with long, straight hair of a light chestnut color. Her slender frame was wrapped in a cloak to keep the frost from her bones but not even the cape’s hood was able to hide her light teint, her delicate features and the somewhat enlarged, pointed ears.

“Manandiel has been my companion for many years,” replied Thondur. “She may have the diluted blood of elves running through her veins, but she welcomes the embrace of the stone over her head. With courage, honor, and distinction, she has saved my hide uncounted times—and she makes good conversation. I trust her with my life, and a more capable archer you will not find anywhere between here and Ithuviénen.”

“Bows and arrows…” Bandruf sneered. “I’d rather beat them with a hammer or a—”

“My name is Kerran.” The second companion stepped forward to face Bandruf, easily surpassing the dwarf’s height by two feet. His wild shock of shoulder-long hair and the dark stubble on his chin easily gave him away as a human. With piercing blue eyes and a noticeably stockier frame than the half-elf, he looked like a fighting machine, his muscles moving and bulging under his skin even while standing idle. “I feel no animosity towards you or any other dwarves of Rikkaz-Dûm. My fight is with the evil spawn that is devouring our world.”

Bandruf looked from Kerran to his fellow dwarf. “The Cruciati?”

“The very same.”

“We do not indulge much in outside politics here, which is the reason why I have even considered making this proposal to you.” Dark, pregnant clouds had devoured the sunlight and a heavy snow had begun to fall. The muffled quality of Bandruf’s voice gave his words an almost conspiratorial note. “But I had to make sure you are aware of the consequences, should you decide to betray us.”

“A better place for eternal rest I could not imagine,” Manandiel raised her eyes skyward in admiration as she spoke. She caught a snowflake on her tongue and smiled with a radiant glow on her face.

“That’s why dwarves and elves don’t get along,” Bandruf thundered.

“No, those issues are much more complex. Painting them in black and white doesn’t really do anyone justice. But ultimately, we all want the same thing.”

“What is that?”

“A safe and loving place to live and raise our families.”

Bandruf raised an eyebrow and looked at Thondur.

“Didn’t I tell you? Good conversation.” The younger dwarf’s smirk was disarming.

Bandruf acknowledged him with a well-meaning nod. A gust of wind carried a baleful howl through the mountain valleys below, its sound riding on the snow. “Ah, the frost trolls welcoming the snow. One can never forget the music they make.”

Thondur and his companions did not respond. They listened in silence as it slowly died away before they turned their attention back to Bandruf.

“Let us hear more about your proposal then,” Thondur backed away from the ice blocks and found shelter from the driving snow, closer to the mountain wall from which they had emerged earlier.

“The Glass Moon Staff of Kratosh. It is lost…” Bandruf paused for a moment, as if to collect his thoughts and deciding where to commence his tale.

“Many years ago, Rikkaz-Dûm was home to a fire mage by the name of Kratosh. His studies were somewhat outside the norm but we tolerated his unusual work and his eccentricities, because his fire magic helped smelt and purify ores that we produced. His mysterious powers fueled the main forge for uncounted years.

“About thirty years ago, the excavations in the mines opened up a strange underground chamber—a cavern…It was a strange place. Haunted, it seemed, as if an unseen evil was lurking about. None of our workers dared set foot in it…”

“Dwarves who feared the rock?” To Thondur, the notion was incredulous.

“Kratosh feared something horrible may befall us, so he sealed the cavern with his mysterious powers and bound the spell to the Glass Moon Staff. The spell works like a key and only the Glass Moon Staff can unlock the doorway.”

“And now you need to open that cavern,” Thondur said. “Why?”

“This and that,” Bandruf’s tone was elusive. “Mithril…gems, perhaps—whatever is in there. We need to expand our mining and the way leads through that cavern. Time to open it up and put its resources to use.”

“You no longer fear what may be inside?”

“We have mined these mountains for thousands of years. We never encountered anything we could not handle. I am certain we can take care of whatever may be lurking in that cavern—if anything is lurking there at all. The whole thing may be naught but superstition.”

“Where is this staff now?” Manandiel turned from the frozen graves of torture and joined the dwarves. Bandruf eyed her with the kind of disdain only a dwarf could muster for an elf, but, at length, he answered.

“Kratosh left us long ago and the staff disappeared with him. In recent months, we have tried to locate his whereabouts. We sent out scouts and we talked to travelers from far and wide. Last we heard, Kratosh was seen at the Temple of Morning Mist—but not for many years.”

“And you want us to get it for you?”

“That would be my request, yes. The Temple of Morning Mist is many a day’s journey from here and it is deep in Cruciati territory…but a small group of experienced adventurers, like yourselves, could easily slip in and out of there without attracting too much attention.”

“What’s in it for us?” The human warrior asked as he joined the group.

“Mithril armor…specially fitted…enchanted, if you wish…you name it.”

Thondur gave his companions a quick glance, then he reached out and grabbed Bandruf’s forearm. The other dwarf firmly grasped his in return and with this traditional Dwarven handshake, they sealed the agreement.

“Dûm’ul Thondur Boslak,” Bandruf, the older dwarf, said.

“May the rock protect you, too,” Thondur replied.

2

An Unwanted Encounter

Well over a week had passed since Thondur and his companions had left the dwarven city Khul’gurath and ventured west, leaving the mountains of Rikkaz-Dûm behind them. Thondur ran an eye over the snow-capped peaks, admiring the way they loomed majestically over them, just as they caught the clouds and momentarily disappeared from sight. So much history. So much ambition.

He himself hailed from Dûm-Haz’tôl, the dwarven realm ruled by the House of Firun, located much farther to the north in a region where the snow never melted. More than a thousand years ago, dwarves from Dûm-Haz’tôl, the Everfrost Mountains, were exiled by the house of Firun and moved south, relocating in the enormous mountain range that separated Uërland from the Hiraran Sea. After finding inexhaustible mithril deposits, they decided to call their new home Rikkaz-Dûm—the Mithril Mountains.

Over generations to come, they built a flourishing realm for themselves, resplendent in its dwarven architecture and the riches they brought forth from the mines. For much of his life, Thondur had wanted to see Rikkaz-Dûm, especially its mythical capital city Kul’gurath.

In the end, he found it somewhat amusing that he ended up there by sheer coincidence, after he and his companions had gotten into a heated, drunken fight with a group of Orcflayers, the details of which still eluded him somewhat. All he knew was that they woke up, battered and hung over in the back of a farmer’s cart, trundling its way to the dwarven capital. With nothing better to do, the companions agreed to stay on for the journey and soon found themselves emerging through the impressive gates and staring up at the fabled City of the Towering Wall.

They spent a few days mingling with the crowds, taking in the sights, sounds and smells of the city, during which time Thondur also made inquiries about a cousin of his— twice-removed—who had reportedly ended up in these parts many years ago with dreams of striking it rich.

When Thondur at last found him, Ulgosh had indeed found a fortune in mithril and had quickly risen in rank. With a smile, Thondur recalled their reunion that first night. There had been many mugs of ale, a lot of singing and a lot of laughter. It turned out, Ulgosh was still every bit the entertainer that Thondur remembered.

It was Ulgosh who suggested the companions might be interested in a particular opportunity—clan business, he said, that required outside help because it required a certain spirit of adventure.

Spirit of adventure, indeed. Thondur grinned to himself, lost in his reverie.

Under a cerulean, cloud-speckled sky, the companions emerged from the jagged, rocky mountain sides where the landscape gave way to the rolling foothills, an undulating sea of green, dotted with white, lichen-blotched boulders and sparsely populated by coniferous trees. The air was balmy and redolent with the scent of pines. As they passed, a lizard was sunbathing on a rock, doing push-ups while bobbing its head and carefully surveying its surroundings for any dangers or challengers. Manandiel leaned over the little reptile, whispering to it, and it quickly scampered away, disappearing in a crack between the rocks.

An abandoned camp site that came into view by the side of the trail, surrounded by a crop of lush trees, was a welcome sight. They slowed down and decided to take a break. With firewood plentiful, it did not take the companions long to gather large armfuls, and soon they had bangers and potatoes frying in a small cast iron pan that Kerran had provided. With each deliciously greasy bite, Thondur felt his spirits rise as if the juicy sustenance instantly fed his mood and renewed his energies. Since before dawn they had been walking, and with the sun now well past noon, the meal, simple as it was, presented an exceedingly satisfying distraction.

“Two more days, I wager, until we reach Ard Íseal, the Rolling Plains,” Manandiel said as the last of her sausage disappeared in her mouth. She leaned back and looked at the sky for any signs of change, but what few clouds there were, drifted across lazily in the light breeze. “From there, we should get to the temple in a few hours if the weather holds.”

“And if we don’t run into patrols of the Corrupted breed,” Thondur added, not without a hint of worry.

“My sword is hungry for Cruciati scum,” Kerran said, licking his fingers and wiping them clean on a bushel of grass. His face brightened to a wide, toothy smile as he jumped to his feet, exuberant and brimming with vitality once again. His entire demeanor indicated that he itched to move on, but for the moment, he checked his armor, tightened some of the leather straps that held the dinged-up metal plates in place and pulled up his leather bracers. The tall warrior expertly put out the fire, covered the shallow pit with dirt to prevent the flames from rekindling and helped the dwarf to his feet. He grabbed his sheathed sword that rested against the tree stump that had served him as a seat, and tightened it around his waist in one smooth move, skillfully tying the loose end of the belt into a knot. Ready to move on, he set out at a brisk pace without waiting for his companions, who followed him with the smaller dwarf scampering to keep up.

***

Three hours later, they emerged from a narrow passage that separated two large house-sized boulders, when a glint in the distance caught Manandiel’s keen eyes. Immediately, she raised a hand in warning.

“Hold it!” she hissed, as she pressed herself in the shadow of the boulder to her right as to hide her presence. Without the need for explanation, her companions instantly followed her example. While she was only half elf and some of her features were decidedly human, her superior eyesight had most definitely been handed down by her elven mother, along with her radiant beauty.

There it was again, the unmistakable glint of moving metal—armor!

“Troops, on foot.” Manandiel pulled a small retractable telescope from a pouch on her belt and unfolded it with a silent clack. She put it to her eyes and for the moment, an ongoing argument among mockingbirds in the trees was the only sound around them. She studied the distance through her looking glass a little longer.

“Cruciati,” she said at last, her voice heavy with displeasure. “50 soldiers strong, I suppose, with a Cruciator in the lead.”

Thondur snatched the looking glass from her hands and checked for himself. “They are headed this way.”

He folded the telescope and handed it back to Manandiel. Without any further comment, the three companions disappeared among a grove of nearby trees, thick with undergrowth, leaving not a trace of their presence. Lying flat on the ground, trying to blend in with their environment, they watched as the foot soldiers slowly approached. When Kerran drew his sword in eager anticipation, Thondur stayed his hand with a whisper.

“There will be plenty of that along the way, have no doubt. No need to attract undue attention now, and risk being tracked and hunted.”

With gritted teeth, Kerran shot him a poisonous glance. He knew the dwarf was right but, clearly, he was aching for a fight.

“Demonic scum!” he muttered, but his body relaxed visibly.

“I agree, but we could get hurt and then, what?”

Without a sound, Kerran sheathed his sword and lowered his shield over his armor to make sure no visible glint would give them away. By now, the unison stamping of feet was audible, slowly ascending the hillside towards them, the brittle gravel crunching under heavy booted soles.

With slow, deliberate movements, Manandiel nocked an arrow but did not draw the bowstring. “Just in case we are being discovered.” Her voice was but a whisper.

No more than a hundred feet separated them from the Cruciati soldiers now. The troop’s progress was steady, uninterrupted, undeterred, impelled by the rasping growl of some whip-lashing Optio. Their armors were as black as the nightmares they had sprung from, devouring the sunlight like a magic sponge without any glint. Only the emblem that decorated the tops of their helmets shone metallic in the sunlight—the reflection Manandiel had noticed from afar.

As he had many times before when encountering Cruciati’s tormented souls, Thondur once again noticed the sullied expression on every soldier’s face, corrupted with evil, filled with a twisted hatred and insatiable rage. Their eyes were in a glazed stare, fixed straight ahead, ever unwavering.

The Cruciator that led them, on the other hand, allowed his gaze to move across the landscape before them without interrupt. Sweeping. Searching. Scanning.

Wearing a distorted grimace of a face, his skin a sickening, rotting blue, the Cruciator was much taller than his foot soldiers. An impressive figure with a deep and broad chest, he was covered in armor of the same nightmare-black, head to toe—except for a small symbol that was emblazoned on his chest. It was glowing and undulating—magic!

Manandiel raised her left hand and closed her eyes in concentration. Her nostrils flared and her lips formed words that were never spoken aloud. A subtle glow appeared in her palm that quickly expanded to the size of her entire hand. She wrapped her slender fingers around it and made a fist, then quickly opened her hand and the glow expanded to engulf the three of them before fading away and becoming invisible.

Thondur had seen it before. A minor camouflage spell that should help keep them hidden from the prying eyes of the Cruciator. It was quiet under the cloak. All sound from the outside silenced by the magic, the same way their own noise would be muffled, not to be heard.

“Let’s hope it works,” Manandiel whispered. “A Tormentor or Terrorlord would see right through it, but the limited mental senses of a Cruciator…” She never finished her sentence because the dark commander’s eyes swept in their direction and locked them in their gaze from a distance.

The black shape of his entire body lost its opacity and became partially translucent, as if consisting of nothing more than whirls of black smoke. The figure detached itself from the troops and hovered towards them. The glowing orange eyes were never wavering, never blinking.

Thondur held his breath in anticipation. The Cruciator floated along a hedge and reached the narrow pathway that led between the large boulders. Here, the figure stopped and the Cruciator extended a black glove. With a sweeping motion, he seemed to scan the area with his hand once, twice, before he lowered it. For what felt like an interminably long moment, he hovered without any sign of motion while the soldiers marched up from behind to meet him with a grinding staccato of stomps. Then everything went deadly silent as the soldiers came to a stop with one final thud.

Thondur could hear the Cruciator speak in the dark language of the Corrupted. It was a hissing, dangerous-sounding string of words and noises that was nothing like any of the languages the dwarf was familiar with. Upon a sign from their leader, the soldiers set into motion again and passed through the narrow gap in single file. The Cruciator’s watchful eyes continued to scan their surroundings relentlessly, as if suspecting and searching for a trap.

Once again, his eyes locked onto the position where Thondur and his companions were hiding. Once more, he reached out his hand, aiming it straight towards them as he performed another one his mysterious scans. At length, his hand dropped, though something must have triggered his suspicion. The Cruciator’s demeanor changed, as did his posture and body language. He floated towards them. At the same moment, Thondur felt the cloaking spell fail, the sounds surrounding him becoming clear once again.

Not now!

The Cruciator inched closer, his feet never making contact with the ground. A wave of the sickeningly sweet stench of rot filled Thondur’s nose. The figure hovered closer still, the fetor of decay becoming overwhelming. Only a few inches separated the Cruciator from their hiding place. So close was the creature that Thondur could have touched the tip the Cruciator’s ethereal boots. The dwarf firmly pressed his face into the dirt, hoping that the thicket of brush and leaves would hide their presence.

If he does another scan, we’re dead!

Thondur had faced dangerous situations many times before and he did what he knew would calm him down. He took shallow breaths and focused on slowing down his heartbeat. A stupid attempt. He was well aware that it was an autonomic system that he could not control, but in his desperation he cared little.

Nothing moved.

He could sense that Manandiel and Kerran had also frozen next to him. There was not the slightest movement.

The Cruciator hovered before them for what felt like an eternity when, at last, the rustling of a squirrel provided a distraction. As the small rodent emerged from the forest floor and began scampering up a tree, the Cruciator raised an arm and released a bolt from the wrist-mounted crossbow he wore. Pinned to the bark, the squirrel was long dead before the Cruciator reached it and tore into the still-warm carcass, devouring half the animal in one bone-crunching bite.

With blood and saliva dripping from his rotting black teeth, the Cruciator turned once last time towards the companions’ hideout, but unable to identify any trouble, the dark figure eventually turned and hovered back to join his troops. There, his form solidified again and he joined their march. It was not until the sound of stomping feet had faded entirely that Thondur dared to catch a deep breath. Manandiel stirred next to him, appearing from under a blanket of rust-colored autumn leaves.

“Cruciators always give me the creeps,” Kerran said as he rose from his hiding and wiped the foliage from his clothes. “I dare not image what Terrorlords must be like.”

“You do not want to meet a Terrorlord,” Thondur replied. “All magic. No humanity…all…corruption!”

“I would never have guessed,” Kerran said with a wide grin that broke the tension and instantly lifted their spirits.

“You two still want to do this?” Thondur’s question was truly rhetorical. He knew well enough that it was rather for his own reassurance but hearing his companions recommit themselves to their quest gave him confidence, though he could still feel the adrenaline rushing through his body, see the piercing eyes of the Cruciator on them in his mind. “There will be a lot more of those guys where we’re going.”

“I don’t care to live forever. Do you?” Manandiel laughed and flicked her hair over her shoulder as she set out, back onto the path.

3

Ard Íseal

Two days later, just as Manandiel had estimated, they reached the borders of Ard Íseal where a cold breeze greeted them. The companions had spent the better part of the morning trotting through the pouring rain. A constant trickle of water, run-off from the overhead leaves of the forest, had constantly seeped into their collars. There was not an inch on their bodies that was dry at this time and the cold wind they faced now, blowing hard from the North, sent a chill through their bodies. At least, the rain had stopped a short while ago.

“We should have gone through Phyrria instead,” Kerran said. “Keep south where it’s warm before coming up North.”

“And cross the mountains? Climbing like goats for weeks on end?”

“We could have taken the Dwarven tunnels of Ringoldur. I know the way…” Thondur added.

“And spend a week underground in monster-infected caverns and tunnels? No, I much prefer this. The weather may be inclement but at least we have wide open space and fresh air to breathe.”

“Wide open space…that is exactly why I would have much preferred Ringoldur,” Thondur grumbled, but his demeanor was not nearly as disgruntled as his words made it sound. He simply enjoyed to rib the half-elf on occasions such as this. For a dwarf, he had a surprising acceptance of nature and did, in fact, appreciate the outdoors as much as he did the embrace of a mountain.

“A little rain has never hurt anyone,” Kerran said, his bulky arms glistening with the moisture. His hair hung from his head in long wet strands that stuck to his bulging neck. “How much longer do you suppose?”

“Three hours in this wind,” Manandiel said. “We should try to keep to the lee of these mounds. It’ll keep the worst of the wind off and now that the rain has stopped, it may actually blow us dry.”

Before they set off on the last leg of their journey to the Temple of Morning Mist, Thondur took in his surroundings one more time. It was magnificent.

They had emerged from a thick forest in which the foliage had trapped the moisture from the rain and created a stale wall of heavy air. As soon as they had set foot beyond the last of the trees, the plains opened up before them. An ocean of green, speckled with small hills and rocky outcrops, and dotted with individual, wind-bent trees.

This part of Ard Íseal was once called the Reyterhain, the home of the proud horse people. Before the cataclysm, Thondur’s thoughts drifted. In his mind’s eye he could see the proud horse riders move among the hilly terrain, disappearing momentarily from sight among the waves of rolling hillocks, only to reappear moments later on the other side.

Gone. All of them! The hooting of the riders, the neighing of their magnificent beasts, and the muffled rumble of their galloping hooves across the grassy plains faded from his mind’s vision. The cataclysm had annihilated them, as it had laid waste to so many people and cultures.

The sun broke through the cloud cover and lifted the gray veil that lay draped upon the land. One thin sliver at first, which cut through the sky like a sharp needle, then another, highlighting a patch of grass in the distance. Its color was of the richest hue that Thondur had ever seen, a green that looked so lush and juicy, as if golden filigree was woven within each blade of grass. The beam of light accented a large rock, sitting by itself on top of a small mound. Its bright grayish white created a stark contrast to the sea of green, the yellow lichen that covered it in mottled patches clearly visible even from afar.

As a dwarf, Thondur had never had any true affinity to the outdoors. Still, when he faced vistas such as this, the natural beauty of the world made him understand why humans and elves cherished it so very much. For a moment, he almost forgot what it meant to be dwarven and he allowed himself to get carried away in nature’s display of beauty before him.

“Breathtaking, isn’t it?” Manandiel had observed his expression with satisfaction. “It makes you forget all your aches and pains. It drives away all the horrors and makes everything alright. It is as if the light itself has a healing magic.”

Her words brought a smile on Thondur’s gnarled face. Healing magic…sounds nice.

From the angle the light fell through the clouds, they could see that sunset would soon be upon them.

“We won’t get there before nightfall. Perhaps it would be best to set up camp on one of these mounds. Keep to the high ground…” Kerran’s suggestion was sensible. There was no point trying to stumble around in the dark.

“Indeed,” Thondur said and pointed towards the illuminated rock in the distance that had caught his attention. “How about over there?”

Kerran could not hide a smile and set out in the general direction of the outcropping.

As they threaded their way through the grassy hills, Thondur tried to imprint the beautiful imagery of the sunset in his brain, to eternalize it. It was too beautiful to ever let the memory fade. So lost in reverie was he that he stumbled sideways when his boots caught in a raised bushel of grass and kicked up dirt.

Strange, he thought. The dirt sounded almost…metallic.

“Hold up,” he called to his companions and began to dig the toes of his boot into the same pile of dirt. Quickly, it fell apart and exposed a bony hand in a heavily dented steel gauntlet. The dwarf dropped to his knees and dug his gloved fingers into the dirt as his companions sidled up to him, just in time to see Thondur expose the entire skeletal torso.

“Old,” he said under his breath, swiping his hand over the remains to clear off the debris.

“A Reyter,” Kerran said, crouching on his haunches next to the dwarf. “See the insignia?”

His finger pointed at a faded symbol on the stained cloth that covered the body. Torn and no more than disintegrating shreds, Thondur realized, it covered the man’s supple leather armor. “Horses…”

Kerran dug further into the dirt to expose the man’s skull. Battered and fractured, it told a simple story. “Head bashed in… a long time ago. Before the cataclysm.”

“Let him rest in peace,” Manandiel said and began to cover the skeletal body with dirt once again, as Kerran ran his hands along the sides of the body. At last he found what he was looking for. He pulled a rusty sword from the loose dirt, gave it a quick look-over and nodded. “As I thought,” he said. “A Reyter.”

He took the blade, laid it flat on the ground, stepped on the tip and pulled up the handle so hard that the blade snapped in two with a metallic crack. Then he flung the two useless pieces of metal as far as he could, out of sight.

“I’ll never get used to this strange ritual of yours,” Thondur said watching with some disdain. He had observed Kerran break swords whenever he encountered an armed body. For safety, the warrior had proclaimed once. Nonetheless, the destruction of a good weapon simply rubbed Thondur the wrong way, every time. Someone had labored to mine the ore, to smelt the metal, to forge the steel. It was not a piece of useless junk. “There is no need for this… he wasn’t going to do any harm with the sword… there is no coming back from the dead.”

“Oh, I think we both know better than that…”

“When the dead rise, it is by magic… unnatural! None of that around.”

“That may be so… now, but either way, I prefer my undead unarmed. Their bite is bad enough. No need to add to it the flesh rot from a rusty blade.”

“It still is a dangerous thing to do,” Manadiel chimed in. “You put yourself at risk, every time you do this. And you know it! That blade could have been enchanted. And then, what?”

“The Reyters never dealt in weapon enchantments.”

“What makes you so sure of that? They’ve been gone for more than two generations… and with them, so are their secrets. They had healers, magic users…”

“But not weapon enchantment…”

“Stubborn, as ever, I see.” Manandiel threw up her hands. “Just bear in mind that I will have to be the one to put you to the blade if something like this were to happen.”

Thondur raised one gray-streaked, bushy eyebrow as he stared at the half-elf. Why was she the one? He could put an end to the warrior were something untoward to happen…

***

Thirty minutes later, Kerran dropped his leather pack on the rock under a loud clatter of the cookware he had attached to it. The clouds were mostly gone by now and gave way to a beautiful evening sky that just begun its orange descent in the West.

“Shall we risk a fire?” Thondur asked. All the walking and rain soaking had left him ravenous. He was simply dying for some hot food—followed by a good smoke.

Manandir checked the sun. “We have less than an hour left before it gets dark. Let’s make it quick and put out the flames before the light fades. I don’t care to advertise our presence here in the night.”

They fried the last strips of bacon, a treasure they had purchased two days ago. Thondur remembered the burly butcher who had sold it to them while they passed through a small village just before they entered the thick forests that separated Caledony from Phyrria this far East. He had proudly advertised his meats and mentioned that curing the bacon with a secret spice rub of his own making had turned it into “the best bacon you’ve ever tasted!”

“That butcher was right, you know. His bacon is better than any I have ever tasted,” Thondur said as he swallowed the last crispy bit of it. “We’ll have to stop by there on our way back.”

Knowing that from now on it would be nothing but hard tack, the savory meat tasted twice as good, the dwarf imagined. He licked his fingers to make sure none of the greasy goodness was being wasted.

Kerran handed him a drinking bag. It was filled with water and a bit of heavily diluted wine, to prevent the water from going stale—not to mention that it tasted better. The dwarf took a few big gulps before handing the water skin on to Manandiel. In silence, they watched forlorn as the sun set and the sky immediately took on a deep red and purple tinge that soon bloomed across the entire horizon.

Manandiel looked across the flames of their small fire, directly at Kerran. “You never told us how you got that scar,” she said, motioning at the warrior’s face where a craggy rift ran from his cheek across his nose.

“Gnoll ambush,” he replied. If he felt the question was insensitive, he never showed. “Friend and I were tracking down some blackhearted wastelife who stole children and sold them into slavery to some barbaric hill tribe, way out west. We got careless, I suppose, and this happened.”

“And your friend?”

“Didn’t make it…Gnolls eviscerated him, put him on a pike, let him bleed out.”

“How did you get away?”

“There were four of them. After I got hit across the head, I dropped…dizzy, but not out. They ignored me, thought I was done for, so they turned their backs on me. It cost them dearly.”

Unhappy to end the dinner on such a gloomy note, Thondur tried to change the subject. “So, you’re from out west then? Originally?”

“Nah! Phyrria…true-blooded. Hot blooded…” he grinned.

“Yeah, I don’t think I want to hear that story,” Manandiel said. She got to her feet and extinguished the fire as darkness fell, making sure not even dying embers would give them away in the night, and soon they lay huddled around the large rock that offered them shelter from the wind that, by all appearances, blew constantly across these plains.

“Ard Íseal,” Thondur sighed. “Always worth a visit.”

“You sure you’re not an elf in disguise?” Kerran laughed. “You seem to be enchanted by nature’s beauty.”

“Who can say?” Thondur replied. “Perhaps I’m a half-breed, like Manandiel here.”

“One wonders what halves those would be,” she said. “One half troll and the other half…sausage?”

Kerran roared with laughter. “Meet Thondur, half a sausage…”

“Sure, you guys laugh it up…but I do feel a certain kinship with…this. It’s not dwarven.”

“It’s not dwarven,” Kerran mocked. “That’s for sure.”

As night fell, they settled into an uneasy sleep, always making sure one of them stayed awake and on watch.

When it was Manandiel’s turn, she felt a presence out there in the darkness. It seemed to circle them for a while, curiosity piqued, but it kept a distance and not even the half-elf’s heightened low-light vision enabled her to see what kind of creature it was. Though she never felt they were in any real danger, Manandiel was nonetheless relieved when the presence finally moved off.

4

The Meeting of Panfire

After an uneventful night, the three companions rose just before the first light broke and without further deliberation or breakfast, they set out northwards, eager to reach the Temple of Morning Mist. The wind had died down overnight and the sky promised a beautiful, clear day. They made good progress and an hour later, they were able to discern the Temple in the distance.

Perched on a low, rocky outcrop, slightly veiled by a distant morning haze, the structure that had made the Temple of Morning Mist one of the most recognized landmarks in Caledony, reached hundreds of feet into the sky. The series of upright, concentric stone rings that made up the bulk of the structure rose straight up, high enough to touch the clouds that drifted lazily across the plains. At the center of the finely carved rings was an enormous sculpture, tying the entire structure together. Thondur could not make out details of the sculpture from this distance, but he knew that it depicted five interwoven rings held in place by a member of each of the five races that dominated the era: Humans, Elves, Dwarves, Gnomes and Halflings.

The companions continued their trek, weaving their way between the low hills and rock outcroppings and observed as the towering structure grew larger and larger before them. Its scale was truly unfathomable. Thousands of years old and reportedly abandoned since the cataclysm more than fifty years ago, the structure showed clear signs of dilapidation. The closer they got, the more obvious it became. The stone rings, which must have been the utter pride of its creators once, appeared brittle and broken, the entire top halves missing from at least two of the concentric circles. The carvings had clearly been intricate and delicate once, but now they looked tattered and ragged. Some of the glyphs were damaged and weathered beyond recognition. Many years ago, the structure had become the dominion of shrubs and at this point, large vines were streaming across its surface, hiding parts of the structure under their bushy embrace.

“Not quite as glorious as in the songs,” Manandiel remarked.

“It is magnificent nonetheless,” Thondur said. “Only dwarves could construct something to match its scale.”

“Indeed. It is a relic from a time when dwarves and elves lived and fought side by side. The Temple was built to celebrate the friendship among races. Priests, clerics and wizards of all stripes and races used to call this their home. It was a place where they were able to freely explore, share and study religious, scientific and magical knowledge.”

“Before the Great Awakening, then?”

“Long before. The Awakening was what put an end to it. The zealots and their ilk considered it a heretical place in their unchecked fanaticism and everyone associated with it became a social outcast. Before long, no one really wanted anything to do with it, except for the Ancient Ring Order. They were the only ones maintaining the Temple and taking residence here.”

“The cataclysm did the rest,” she added after a pause. “It’s been abandoned ever since.”

“Not entirely,” Kerran said. He pointed towards a light pillar of smoke that rose near the Temple entrance. In thin wafts, the smoke drifted upwards in a sluggish stream before it dissipated entirely.

“It would have been too easy to find it abandoned,” Manandiel said. “No unnecessary risks. Let’s try to get a little closer and take a look. The last thing we need is to stick our heads into a Cruciati nest.”

Her companions nodded and Kerran was already leading the way. Carefully staying out of sight, they kept behind mounds and small hills until they were a good deal closer and got a better view. Halting beneath a large rock that rested abandoned on top of a mound, they dropped their gear and quietly ascended the rock. They lay flat on their bellies, crawled towards the edge and peeked out across the plain. The entrance to the Temple was much closer than Thandor had expected, no more than 300 yards away with the source of the smoke clearly within their sight. A small caravan had set up camp in front of the temple. A handful of donkey carts and one larger, horse-drawn cart were arranged in a large circle, surrounding a camp fire. Barrels of food and drink were stacked against the carts and small tents spotted the site.

“They don’t seem to be going anywhere anytime soon,” Manandiel keeping her voice low.

“At least they’re not Cruciati.” Among the carts, Thondur could see figures moving about. Some were sitting by the fire, preparing food, from what he could tell. Others were standing nearby, talking. All of them wore dark robes that covered almost their entire bodies, with turbans in a colorful red and golden hue.

“No, they are priests of Eṣeru, an order that dedicates itself to the study of sacred architecture and geometry,” a calm voice behind the companions said unexpectedly. Startled, they turned to face the speaker. Kerran’s hand instinctively went to the grip of his sword, while Manandiel already had a dagger with a long, slender blade in one hand. The figure looked down on them with a crooked smile that seemed larger than the halfling himself. “They’re a crackpot kind of bunch when it comes right down to it.”

“Panfire!” Thondur exclaimed, trying to keep his voice down. Next to him, Kerran relaxed and took the hand off his sword. Manandiel stuck out her hand towards the halfling in greeting who eagerly took it and shook it with some vigor.

“You got my message, then?” Manandiel asked as she put away the dagger.

“Indeed, I did. Been hanging around here for days, waiting for you.” Panfire, the halfling, sat down and joined the companions on the cold rock. “So, what’s all this about then?”

“Have you made contact?” Manandiel jutted her chin towards the camp.

“No no no, oh no! I thought it be wise to remain hidden and wait for you. Just grabbed some food, but they never noticed.”

Manandiel raised a quizzical eyebrow, and Panfire continued, “They left it lying around…What was I supposed to do? Let it get soggy and rot?”

Kerran rolled his eyes. Not five words into greeting him, the warrior was already reminded why Panfire was such a grating existence at times. Too much stress. The little halfling could turn the most ordinary of moments into excruciating exercises in patience.

“There is a small grove of trees on the opposite side of their camp. It is perfect for cover and they never go anywhere near it. Ideal spot to hunker down and watch,” Panfire explained.

“Lead the way then,” Manandiel suggested, bringing a big smile on the halfling’s face.

“Just keep low and quiet.” Why the halfling felt the need to expressly say that, no one knew.

***

It did not take them long to reach the copse and settle down. Surrounded by lush pine trees, it gave them shelter and kept them out of sight. No camp fire, Thondur thought to himself, but that’s okay. We’re down to hard tacks, anyway.

“So, tell me what this is all about then,” the halfling urged. He sat on a fallen log next to Manandiel and Kerran, happily—and noisily—chewing on a strip of jerky. They were out of earshot from the other encampment but had an advantageous view of the site and the temple entrance from up here.

Thondur took the time to explain what had led them here, though he omitted the part where the dwarves of Rikkaz-Dûm had threatened to freeze them and lay them out under the open sky, should the dwarves feel betrayed. The omission was not for any particular reason other than that the reminder was simply too disturbing for him to reiterate, though he had to admit to himself that there was no reason to fear their wrath. The companions had no such intentions—and yet, he’d rather not think about it.

“It won’t be easy to get into the temple without drawing some kind of attention,” Panfire said when the dwarf had finished. “These priests may not be opposed to us being here, but they certainly won’t like it if we snoop around the inner sanctum. They are obsessed with the Temple. Completely consumed!”

“Why? What are they doing?”

“They are searching for something. I’ve overheard them talk about a Sun Ring, and the prophecy…your typical crackpot stuff. But they’re pretty serious about it.”

He looked around the group, hoping that someone else might know what this artifact might be, but he was only met with blank stares and he shrugged his shoulders. “I had hoped you know what it’s all about. It sounded pretty exciting, but I guess, not.”

“Don’t underestimate our own quest, Panfire,” Manandiel reassured him.

A handful of the figures emerged from the temple entrance and rushed towards the priest’s camp. There was some commotion as they met up with others and talked to each other animatedly, gesticulating wildly.

“Great!” Panfire grumbled.

“What is it?”

“They must have found something, which means the place will soon be swarming with them. Or, they may have noticed that their golden circlet with the green sapphire is missing from the altar of worship.”

“Why? What happened to it?” Thondur asked, but the answer dawned upon him the moment the words crossed his lips. “You…you took it!”

“Well, I’ll need something to trade…for food and stuff…eventually. Money doesn’t lie on the streets in case you hadn’t noticed.”

If looks could kill, Thondur’s gaze would have speared the halfling.

“I’ll return it, always planned on…”

“How would you return it if you planned on trading it for something else?”

“Well, I might always find it again…”

“I am honestly surprised no one has strung you up by your gizzards yet, the way you steal your way through life.”

“Are you calling me a thief?” The halfling’s voice rose an octave.

“Enough!” Manandiel snapped. “It may be a quality that might just serve us in our endeavor, so let’s not dwell on it…again.”

“You have a plan,” Kerran stated, not as a question.

“I do,” said Manandiel. “And it requires some priest robes.”

“A disguise,” Panfire’s eyes lit up with anxious excitement.

“Your job is to get them. Don’t get caught!”

5

The Temple of Morning Mist

As the afternoon sun was beginning to make its way past the zenith, the companions stood in the cover of the grove. The tumult in the camp had subsided somewhat, though guards had been set up next to the temple entrance who eyed everyone coming out of the building with great suspicion. Somehow, Panfire had been able to produce three robes for them without causing any additional commotion. It was a pretty impressive achievement, considering that it was broad daylight and that people were roaming about the camp at a constant rate.

Made of simple fabric, the robes were damp and smelled unpleasantly musky, but the companions knew that the only way into the temple without drawing attention was to go in disguise. The hardest part was wrestling with the turbans but in the end, they all felt confident that they looked presentable enough to pass casual muster.

“Why don’t you do your thing again?” Thondur looked an Manandiel and made a gesture with his hand. “Like you did with the Cruciator?”

“It’s a camouflage charm, not an invisibility spell. We would be spotted as soon as we moved.”

“No disguise for you?” Kerran noted that Panfire still wore no disguise.

“Not to worry. I have a natural talent for blending in, my friend,” the halfling said in earnest. “No one ever suspects the little guys, anyway.”

“We go in, we get oriented, we go down some quiet hallway, we regroup. If we get separated, always keep to your right. That way we should be able to meet up eventually. Kerran, you go first. We will follow, but not too closely. We don’t want to look like a group,” Manandiel said.

“And keep mumbling,” Panfire added.

“Mumbling? Mumbling, what?”

“It’s kind of a droning, they’re doing. It sounds like Nevah-min-dmeeh!”

Thondur’s eyes narrowed.

“Seriously! Try it,” the halfling urged him.

“Like this? Nevah-min-dmeeh,” the dwarf intoned sonorously and with some pride.

“Perfect,” the halfling said, offering him a wide smile.

“You realize that you just said Never mind me,” Kerran laughed. By now Panfire could no longer hold back his chuckles.

“It never gets old…” he said and ducked as Thondur took a swing at him in retribution.

“Enough with the games and pranks!” Manandiel was serious. “Time to go!”

With Kerran in the lead, they outflanked the campsite, always staying safely out of sight, until they reached the back of the camp. There, they managed to slip unnoticed among the priests, one at a time, and beelined it straight to the temple entrance where the darkness swallowed them.

It took their eyes a few moments to adjust to the gloom inside, but a good number of sconces had been lit with a magical, turquoise flame, illuminating the room with a strange and unnatural light. They advanced slowly, eager to remain inconspicuous, but not without taking in the marvels of the large antechamber in which they found themselves. Through a large, stone-carved doorway they could see the main hall of the temple. Thondur was mesmerized. Not much of its former glory was left, that much was clear. The floor was riddled with large chunks of rocks that must have fallen off the ceiling, along with tumbling, cracked pillars. The ground was covered in dirt and creeping moss. Cobwebs floated in the light breeze that wafted through the structure. It made a sound, he noticed, like a very distant moan, forever rising and lowering in pitch.

Despite its state of complete dilapidation, Thondur could not help but admire the scale of the hall and the craftsmanship it must have once exhibited. Bits of it were still evident in the intricate stone carvings that adorned every surface and the magnificent arches that reached high into the air. The dwarven influences were unmistakable in the architecture, glyphs that he recognized, and the fine carvings, naturally, that filled him with immense pride.

Lost in his reverie, he accidentally bumped into another man.

“My apologies,” he said. The look on the other man’s face registered complete consternation before it changed. His eyes widened and a puzzled frown appeared on his forehead. Before Thondur could say anything else, the stranger began to yell in a tongue that was entirely foreign to him. The man frantically pointed at Thondur as he looked about to make sure he got everyone’s attention. Then, in an unexpected move, he tore the turban from Thondur’s head and exposed his hairy dwarven appearance, bushy whiskers, braids and all. The man’s yells became more frantic and reverberated urgently from the walls.

A strong hand grabbed Thondur him by the arm. A deft jerk pulled him aside and along with him. Kerran had noticed the commotion, tried to put an end to it and together they were now in full flight down darkened hallway. Thondur could see Panfire scampering directly behind them but there was not a sign of Manandiel.

“Perhaps I should have mentioned that they are from the far south of Sabâg-Hrar and do not speak our language,” the halfling yelped.

“You’re telling me this now?”

“As I said, perhaps I should have told you before…”

Kerran made a sudden left turn, straight down a darkened corridor. The move was so sudden, it left Thondur scrambling to catch up. Now in the lead, the warrior pulled his sword in mid-run. Thondur dared not look back. He could hear footsteps behind them, following them by the sound of it, but it was all so frantic, all he could really do was try to keep up with the large human warrior storming ahead.

Once more, Kerran made a sudden turn, this time to the right where they continued following a corridor that twisted left and right with doors branching off every few yards. Thondur listened for their pursuers. They seemed to have fallen behind from what he could tell but their racing footsteps were still clearly audible as they echoed through the hallways. They reached a junction and just as Kerran turned right, they almost ran into Manandiel, who must have arrived by taking a different route.

“Over here! Quick!” Panfire called to them from across a short hallway that ended in a large door with heavy metal fittings. They crossed the hallway and got out of sight, but already, they could hear approaching footsteps. A dim glow appeared, emanating from Manandiel’s hands, and with the same gesture Thondur had seen so many times before, she cast her cloaking spell over them. Immediately, the sounds around them were muted and they found themselves protected by an invisible wall that shimmered like heat in cold air.

“Try not to move,” the half-elf told them.

Momentarily, two priests turned the corner in full flight, their robes fluttering around their ankles, their turbans in disarray. Huffing heavily, they reached the hallway junction and used their indecisiveness about which way to turn as an opportunity to catch their breaths. The men talked to each other in Hirran, the unfamiliar tongue of the people of Sabâg-Hrar. Thondur did not need to understand what they said. The meaning was clear. They pointed one way, then another, they gesticulated and argued in what seemed like constant disagreement.

The taller of the two removed his turban to reveal a head of black hair shorn close to his skull. He stood in silence with narrowed eyes and listened, cocking his head, turning his ear towards one of the hallways. Obviously dissatisfied, he turned to face the next hallway and once again, he stood and listened in deep concentration. He repeated the procedure one more time before he turned and looked down the hallway where the companions were hiding. Thondur held his breath. The Hirar looked straight at them but clearly, he could not see them. He closed his eyes for a long while and simply listened. Eventually, the other man touched him by the shoulder, said a few words and they disappeared the way they had come.

6

Of Songs and Doors

The companions remained still and for the longest time no one said a word. It was only a soft, metallic jangle that reawakened the group.

“Let’s not dally here,” Panfire said. He held up a pair of picklocks and wore a large grin on his face as he held open the door they had cowered in front of. “Best we disappear, while we can, I should say.”

With that, the halfling disappeared in the adjacent room, only to have his head peek out from behind the door a moment later. “Any of you coming?”

They stepped into a room with a high ceiling. It was barren except for a small altar at the far end and two man-sized statues flanking it. The altar was covered with dust and debris from the ceiling, where a large hole was visible as the result of a cave-in. An enormous tree root had sprouted from the hole, trying to grab hold of its surroundings with a tangled web of smaller roots. Long, rope-like vines dangled from above, dangling slightly in the breeze and leafy shrubs covered the altar covering it almost entirely, as if attempting to hide it under a cloak of green.

Thondur examined the statues with a trained eye. They were carved from granite which gave them a slightly coarser look than traditional marble, but the dwarf could nonetheless regard the craftsmanship with some respect. A series of small glyphs caught his eyes, carved into the base of each statue.

Old, Thondur thought, trying to decipher the text. Ancient.

Kerran inspected a narrow hallway that branched off the room to the left but he quickly returned, shaking his head. “No exit.”

“At least we seem to be safe here and the door is easily defendable if someone should discover us,” Manandiel said. “I suggest we lay low, wait and let the tumult die down.”

Thondur was still intrigued by the glyphs and took his time to study them carefully. He dropped his pack to the ground, took the large war hammer off his back to set it aside and sat on the floor before the left statue.

The glyphs were vaguely familiar. Stemming from the age of the Kinslayer Wars, they were no longer in use, but Thondur recalled some of the studies in ancient languages he had received during his time in school. The rest, he tried to figure out by relating these ancient glyphs to more recent ones.

“This is weird,” he mumbled after a long while.

“What is?” Manandiel had overheard him. She had watched him for some time, noticing his intense interest.

“The text doesn’t seem to make sense.”

“Tell me about it.”

“There seems to be reference to a door…”

“No door here.”

“That’s what I mean. Here, look, this glyph says Kut, which means door, then here it says Dôrad, which is the ancient word for king or lord. This symbol here is Dûm, the mountain, and there, Moluth, which makes no sense.”

“Moluth,” Manandiel repeated. “What does it mean?”

“Mouth.”

“What about all the other symbols?”

“Mostly fluff from what I can tell, though I do not understand half of them. Here it says silver…”

“That reminds me of a song,” Panfire perked up. “I’ve heard it once before. Dwarven, something about a man on a silver mountain.”

“I know that song,” Thondur’s eyes lit up. “Something about coming down with fire and lifting spirits higher.”

“That’s the one,” the halfling replied, his eyes ablaze with excitement. “Come and make me holy again!”

“But what does it mean?” Despite his excitement, Thondur was still confused.

Manandiel stood before the two statues and examined them in more detail. “Come down with fire…there is a brazier as part of this statue, here at the bottom.”

“Fire!” Thondur exclaimed.

“And here is a star, on top of the other,” Panfire was ecstatic.

“Lift my spirit higher…” Manandiel mused. “But what does it mean?”

“I’m the man, give you my hand…I have heard the song, too,” Kerran chimed in. He walked up to the left statue, grabbed its arm. It moved, grinding easily against the stone, until it pointed down towards the brazier.

He did the same thing to the opposite statue, this time pointing the arm towards the star overhead.

Nothing happened. A wave of disappointment washed over the room, drowning each of them in it.

“No, I think we’re onto something here,” Manandiel insisted after a moment. “I can feel it. These arms were designed to move. This is not a coincidence. We must have overlooked something. What else do the lyrics say?”

“Let me think, “Thondur got to his feet. “Come down with…,” he mumbled. “Lift my spirits…”

“Someone’s screaming my name,” Panfire said. “That’s it. The name. What is his name? The man on the silver mountain?”

“I don’t…The song doesn’t say…at least not that I remember.”

“History,” Manandiel urged him. “Who was the song about?”

“Some deity,” Thondur vaguely remembered now. “Deôh! That’s who it was…”

Panfire pushed Manandiel aside and positioned himself right before the two statues. He put his hands on his hips and loudly said the name “Deôh!”

Despite his diminutive size, Panfire had a surprisingly sonorous voice and he knew quite well how to project it. No sooner had he finished uttering the word, than a line of symbols appeared on the wall between the statues, silvery and shimmering. Panfire looked at the symbols and squinted, as if in deep thought.

“I give up…I can’t read this. Thondur? A little help, perhaps?”

“An alphabet,” the dwarf said after inspecting the glyphs. “Ancient…but, perhaps, if I…”

He put his gloved finger on one of the letters and it floated down a few inches.

“Deôh,” Thondur mumbled. “Here, this one…”

He touched another glyph and it floated own to hover next to the other.

“This here, must be ôh,” he said after mulling over it briefly. He touched another symbol and it, too, floated down to meet the others. Together, they flared up and a thin line of light appeared on the wall over their heads that travelled along the rock in a wide arc, then angled sharply downwards at both ends—the outline of a door. The line grew in intensity and width as small tendrils diverged from the main frame, creating an intricate pattern that looked perfectly symmetric. Dwarven runes appeared above the door, their strong silvery glow bathing the room in its glaring white light.

“A secret dwarven door!” Thondur was mesmerized, his eyes staring at the magic in unadulterated awe.

Slowly the intensity of the light faded and the companions heard a soft crackling sound as the rock parted and the door before them opened, leading into perfect darkness.

7

The Ancient Ones

Thondur’s callused hand touched the rough wall next to him, as he slowly descended the stairs behind Manandiel into complete blackness. The half-elf was in the lead, her superior vision serving to guide them down the dark stairwell. She had covered the tip of an arrow with an unctuous ointment and used a flint to strike a spark, setting it on fire. The flaming tip served as a makeshift torch as they descended, one step at a time.

Thondur ran his hand over the cold surface of the wall, evaluating and appreciating it in a way only a dwarf could. There was age to it, and an ancient strength. Despite the general dilapidation of the temple above, locked away down here, the stone had been spared the ravages of time and the elements. It was rough and unpolished, but without a single crack—without a single noticeable seam even, as if its creators had chiseled the stairwell out of the mountain in one piece. Inconceivable, the achievement. Thondur was proud of his kin. Only dwarves could have done this!

They reached the bottom of the stairs and Thondur took a moment to breathe the air. It had occurred to him that the air down here had not been disturbed for ages. It was quite possible that not a soul had breathed this air for a thousand years. That it had not even moved in just as long.

It tasted dry and stale. There was a hint of something riding on it that he could not quite identify. Sweet, yet…rancid. He wasn’t sure.

Panfire bumped into him from behind, followed by Kerran who brought up the rear with his sword drawn. Thondur could see the warrior’s unperturbed demeanor. He was alert and scanned the room with his eyes.

Before him, Manandiel located a wall-mounted sconce in the gloom, holding an old torch. She lit the tip with her flame, waited until it had fully caught, then moved off to light another. Slowly, the tenebrious veil lifted and the companions found themselves in a small antechamber. A bench made of stone was lined up along one wall, a small altar before an alcove, elevated by a few steps on the opposite side.

“This is a crypt,” Manandiel said with a hushed voice.

“Behind a secret door…” Thondur mused. “What better way to ensure the bodies will truly lie in peace, untouched, unsullied, undisturbed.”

Kerran took a torch from the wall and approached the alcove that faced the altar.

“What kind of god did they worship?” he asked no one in particular.

Deep in the dark recess, a sparkle became visible as he held out the flame. In the nervous flicker of the torch the companions could see a statue. It was the sculpture of a strange creature, one they had only heard of in myths. Hunched on its hind legs, the creature was remotely humanoid. Strong muscled wings sprouted from its back, folded back neatly. The most remarkable thing, however, was the creature’s face—a mass of skeletal flesh and skin, sightless with no eye sockets but elongated cheeks and a lipless mouth with large, extruding fangs. The skull was rimmed with bony thorns and crowned by horns the shape of which reminded Thondur of bat wings. Between the wings rested a small crystal eye.

“The Ancient One,” Panfire exclaimed. “This crypt must be thousands of years old—”

“Unless someone started worshipping a long-forgotten god from ancient times again,” Kerran said.

“No,” Thondur said. “He’s right. All this is from aeons ago. I can feel it in the rock.”

“Let’s see where this leads,” Manandiel said, already heading down a tunnel. The remaining companions followed, with Kerran bringing up the rear again, torch in hand. Meanwhile, Manandiel had also grabbed one of the torches from a sconce to help illuminate their exploration.

After turning left, the tunnel led straight on before opening into another room. Here, the walls were lined with rows of alcoves, each holding a small chiseled plaque and a large-bellied granite urn.

“Ashes,” Manandiel said. She tried to read the plaques, but in the end she could only shake only shook her head. “You try,” she told Thondur.

The dwarf examined the marble plaques and the glyphs inscribed upon them. But as with the earlier statues, these were so ancient that he was unable to fully decipher them. “Acolytes, it appears to me. Low-ranking members of the order that built the temple.”

“Look how beautifully polished they are,” Panfire said excited, grabbing one of the urns and wiping the dust of ages from it with his shirt sleeve.

“Don’t touch anything!” Manandiel hissed but apparently, too late.

A strange groan filled the air of the crypt, a moaning sound that lingered in the air. It was both distant and yet everywhere, all at once.

The halfling quickly returned the urn to its original place.

The sound of stone grinding upon stone resonated through the darkness ahead of them. It was followed by the dull clank of metal and wood.

That can’t be good, Thondur’s instincts alerted him.

“You had to touch it,” he grumbled under his beard. He reached over his head and drew the large warhammer from his back. Trouble was headed their way, no doubt, and he wanted to be prepared. He took three deep breaths and let out the air in audible huffs each time. Panfire had a short sword in his hand: an unusual weapon, finely crafted and evidently of some exotic origin, the blade was double-edged but narrow as a stiletto. It was glistening dangerously in the flickering torchlight.

Manandiel was the first to see the approaching undead figures. Somehow risen from the dead, they were armed with falchions and shields. A quick count told the half-elf that they were dealing with five of the undead bone-men. Fortunately, their foes lumbered down the tunnel towards the party, as if trying to find their legs after all these years in the grave.

Manandiel’s first arrow hit the skeleton in the front. The flame from the arrow tip quickly spread across the entire ribcage where she had hit the creature. In rapid succession, its bones gave way and the skeleton quickly collapsed to the ground. The resulting light finally afforded the others the opportunity to see their opponents as well–though rictus grins of bare teeth and the deep, empty eye sockets appeared unimpressed. Meanwhile, another arrow hit true. This time, however, the undead creature would not go down, because Manandiel had not had time to ignite the arrow. So, without wavering, the skeleton shambled on, raising its dull blade in response.

Seeing the undead corpses approaching, Thondur quickly spoke a few words of blessing, asking for the strength and purity to defeat these unholy creatures, but he was cut short by Keeran. Stuck in the back of the group, the warrior knocked the smaller halfling aside and pushed past Thondur as he leapt to the front. He charged and instantly cut down the approaching skeleton with a furious slash across its midsection that severed the spine and reduced the creature to a heap of bones.

“Get out of the way!” Manandiel yelled at him. The narrow tunnel prevented her from getting a clear shot with the large warrior blocking her view.

The large warrior stepped to one side and retreated a few steps.

“Lure them back here where there’s more room,” Thondur said. He certainly did not want to miss any of the action. “Give everyone a chance here, lad.”

The companions spread out, making the most of the limited space they had.

“Three more to go,” Manandiel said, just as the first of the remaining skeletons appeared.

Thondur raced forward and, with a fury, flung his hammer in a wide arc. To his surprise, the skeleton blocked the blow with its shield and instantly countered with a stab from its falchion. Fortunately for Thondur, it completely missed its mark and already he swung the hammer once more, letting its momentum carry him along. It hit the skeleton on the shoulder and fractured the collar bone, taking the shield arm with it.

Now armed with only a sword, the skeleton still advanced, its jaws clacking madly. It stabbed wildly at the dwarf, and nicked his armor. But the heavy plate deflected the blow and gave Thondur the opportunity to deliver a devastating blow to his opponent’s head. With a crunch, the brittle skull collapsed onto itself before snapping off the spine and crashing to the floor only moments before the rest of the bones followed in a loud, cascading rattle.

There was a flash of rusty steel—Thondur more heard it than saw it. The dwarf looked up, only to stare at the edge of a sword blade that rapidly approached his face. Another skeleton had caught up with him already, but before the creature’s blade could reach him, Panfire’s short sword pierced the skeleton’s sword arm. The blade got caught between the ulna and the radius, the two bones making up the lower arm. The momentum almost instantly yanked it from the small halfling’s hands, but the impact was enough to redirect the skeleton’s swing, safely away from Thondur.

The swing had caught Manandiel’s eyes as well and with a fluid move, she drew a long knife from a hidden sheath. With a beautiful white handle, the blade itself was ornately decorated and slightly curved, the steel gleaming deadly as if carrying a light of its own. Thondur knew what it was—the elven charm that lay upon the blade, strengthening the steel and reinforcing its impact, particularly against necromantic creatures. The knife went down straight into the skeleton’s skull, drilling through the bone and instantaneously extinguishing whatever unholy magic gave it life.

As the bones clattered to the ground, Kerran delivered a finishing blow to the last of the skeletons, pushing the blade of his sword through the creature’s chest, twisting it sideways to rip the thorax apart and breaking the brittle bones. As the skeleton leaned forward to counter the impact, Kerran raised the blade and hacked off the skeleton’s head with one final blow while still holding his torch in the other hand.

As they watched, the bones crumbled to dust before their eyes. Soon, it was as if the fight had never happened.

“That wasn’t too hard,” Panfire said, picking up his narrow sword that lay on the floor. As he did so, the little halfling noticed blood dripping from his hand.

“In the name of Alamata and all that is righteous…that blimming thing cut me!” he squealed.

“Not to worry, Panfire,” Thondur was already by his side and put two fingers on the wound on the halfling’s arm where a slash had opened up the skin. The dwarf closed his eyes in concentration and felt his healing energy rush into his companion’s body. The bleeding stopped and the wound instantly scabbed over. “This should do it for now.”

“It should never have happened in the first place, “Manandiel admonished the halfling. “From now on, do not touch anything!” Her eyebrows rose and her forehead furrowed as she looked intensely at him.

Panfire lowered his head and put away his short sword. For once, he did not come up with a witty reply.

8

An Apparition

At length, the half-elf turned, picked up the torch she had dropped during the fight and took the lead once more as the companions slowly continued their way through the crypt. They passed through a series of rooms, each of them lined with the same alcoves as the previous one, each alcove containing an urn and a name plaque. Long since had Thondur lost count, but he estimated that there were many hundreds of these urns. The crypt was enormous.

The companions were just about to enter another room, larger from the appearance of it, when a soft clicking sound made Manandiel’s hackles rise.

“Damn,” she muttered and instantly threw herself backwards into the corridor from which she had just emerged. Her sudden fling and widespread arms took the other companions back with her. Not a heartbeat too soon! As they scrambled backwards, a series of blades shot forth from the door frame, creating a grid of knives that would have stabbed Manandiel—and whomever else had been standing nearby—in twenty places at once.

“I did not expect traps down here,” she said after she had a chance to catch her breath and reflect on her life. “I shall not make that mistake again. Everyone keep their eyes open. This place is more dangerous than we expected.”

“Do we even know that we’re on the right track?” Thondur asked. “Why would the staff venture down here?”

Manandiel didn’t answer immediately, but when she finally spoke, her words were carefully measured. “This temple has been abandoned for a very long time. Adventurers, travelers, pilgrims, priests…looters…came here to visit it, to explore it, to steal whatever there was of value. That means…”

“…the staff is not up there.” Thondur finished her sentence. “I get it. A secret area that no one’s ever visited, such as this, is probably the most likely place where we will find it.”

“If we live long enough, that is,” the elf added pointing at the grid of knives that blocked the door. “So, let’s be careful.”

“There’s the trigger.” Panfire pointed towards a small pave rock in the floor that was slightly elevated. He pressed it with his hand and the blades in the doorway retracted, accompanied by a loud snapping noise and then an otherworldly moan, not entirely dissimilar to the one that had announced the resurrection of the skeletons.

“You touched it first…” the halfling instantly pointed at Manandiel. “It’s your fault!” Manandiel did not argue, but neither did she smile.

The companions waited for a long moment but nothing moved. They listened, straining, but they could hear no further sound. Manandiel tried to penetrate the darkness ahead with her superior vision but even she was unable to detect any motion.

“Jam the trigger,” she told Panfire, but the halfling was already busy, inserting thin wooden wedges between the rocks to prevent the switch from moving under pressure.

“Careful now,” Manandiel said, as she reluctantly crossed the threshold of the doorway. She found a sconce to her left and transferred to it the flame from her torch. A large brazier stood at the center of the room, carved entirely from rock. Black soot was visible on the inside of the fire bowl, clear evidence that it had been used, but there was no fuel of any sort left for fire to catch.

The companions filtered into the room one by one and spread out, each of them allowing their eyes to rove the high walls and ceiling. This room was different. Special. The alcoves here were much larger, each holding a stone sarcophagus.

“This one is open,” Kerran said, pointing his torch to illuminate the inside of the closest one. It was empty.

“This one, too,” said Manandiel. The sarcophagus she stood before was also empty, the heavy granite slab that had once covered it lay on the floor next to it, broken in two.

Quickly, they scanned the remaining coffins and found each of them empty.

“These must have been for the dusty bone-men earlier.” Thondur ran his hand along the edge of the nearest sarcophagus. He reached inside and pulled forth a piece of a plate shoulder pad, similar to the ones the skeletons had worn. As he did so, another wail went through the crypt. Long, low and sullen, it reverberated through the cavernous hall. Thondur weighed the warhammer in his hands. His eyes scanned every corner of the room. Nothing moved.

Suddenly the brazier flickered to life. A green flame appeared that quickly grew into a frenzied fireball, bathing the whole room in a sickly green light. A light fog appeared out of nowhere, crawling in small billows along the ground. Soon, the companions stood in a sea of wafting fog, the green light reflecting from it with a strange glow.

“You must help me!” A voice spoke, eerie and remote. It had an ethereal quality as if the voice had risen from the fog, but in that instant, a shimmering figure appeared before a large door at the far end of the room. “You must…help me.”

Wary, the companions looked at each other and began to slowly approach the figure. The shape became clearer, ghostly translucent, but more defined now. Thondur could see the expression on the figure’s face. It was unmistakably dwarven. Deep-set eyes under bushy eyebrows looked back at him, but somehow right through him, he felt. There was no…substance. A braided beard and braided sideburns that looped towards the back of his neck indicated a dwarf of determination and achievement, but it was the bespoke silver cuffs that held the braids in place that truly indicated his high ranking. The apparition dimmed for a moment but returned to full strength almost immediately.

“Will you help me?” it repeated once again. The sound of his voice was reflected from all sides of the room, creating a sustained reverberation.

“Who are you?” Thondur asked.

“Kratosh,” the apparition responded. “Wielder of the flame, servant of Ignis, the God of Fire.”

The apparition appeared stronger and manifested itself with more clarity, as if casting aside a cloak. In his right hand, the dwarf held a staff, as tall as he was. It was perfectly straight and not made from gnarled wood like human or elven staffs were, but from pure, white alabaster. It had silver fittings that reinforced and protected the staff itself, and provided a grip. What was truly eye-catching, however, was a crystal orb that sat at its top, firmly held in place by mithril clasps. It contained a white flame that swirled in a constant circular motion.

The Glass Moon Staff, Thondur realized. He turned and looked at Manandiel. From her expression he could see that she, too, had recognized the staff. They had actually found what they had come here for.

“You are a ghost. How?” The half-elf stepped slowly forward, into the aura of light cast by the apparition, well aware that, with their swords drawn, Kerran and Panfire had her back in case something unexpected should happen.

“A long story,” the apparition replied. “The short of it is that I have unfinished business and that I’d ask you to help me so I can find closure and, finally…rest.”

“What would you have us do?” Manandiel asked.

“Behind this door lies a puzzle. I tried to solve it…I failed. Hence my current condition. A curse was laid upon me that forces me to wander these halls for all eternity. Unable to die. Unable to ever leave.” The dwarf paused.

“Ignis protected me,” he said at long last. “The curse was deflected, but not enough. It cast me into this ghostly form…but my soul can be freed and my body put to rest. If only the puzzle is solved!”

“Why can’t you solve it yourself?” Manandiel’s voice was low, with one eyebrow raised.

“Look at me…I am ethereal. Neither here, nor there. I am light. I am spirit. I am air. I am…unable.”

“What makes you think we could solve the puzzle, when you failed?”

“There is a good chance one of you will succeed.”

“How so?” The half-elf was not convinced.

“There are only so many possible combinations that I am sure, one of you will solve it.”

“And the rest of us will be cursed…like you! Or dead!” Thondur thundered. “I have seen selfish dwarves before but the likes of you are actually better off dead…or cursed!”

“Do not judge me so rashly,” the ghost turned to Thondur. “There is also the matter that I have been able to mull over the puzzle for the last twenty years. I may be cursed to wander in the same place but my mind is still free in this ghostly form. I can still think! I am certain that I know how to solve the puzzle.”

“Certain…” Manadiel stated it not at all as a question.

“Certain of it!”

“I don’t like it.” Manandiel turned to her companions.

“You have no choice in the matter, I’m afraid.” At the mention of these words, the companions heard a loud, metallic sound behind them. Alarmed but trying not to show it, Manandiel cast a glance over her shoulder to see what had happened. The doorway that had almost cut her to pieces had been triggered and was once again blocked by a grid of blades they would not be able to get past. No retreat!

“You are here. You will try to solve the puzzle or suffer the curse.”

Thondur noticed movement. To the left and the right of the doorway, two large figures emerged from the mist, as if rising through the floor. They were gargantuan, twice the size of a regular man, at least, and twice as broad. Golems! And in battle armor, no less, complete with spiked plate shoulder pads and bracers.

He could not control his thoughts and for a moment he wondered who had helped them get dressed because he doubted golems were able to put on a single piece of armor by themselves. But then he realized, it was an illusion. Even the armor was made of stone, part of the body itself. The stupid look on their faces also made it clear that these creatures had been brought to life for one purpose only—to simply smash anything in their way with brute force.

He also noticed much to his relief that they did not move. Not yet, at least!

Meanwhile, Manandiel had also taken the opportunity to observe the golems. Clearly, the biggest question in her mind was whether the Staff of Kratosh was also cursed and ethereal, or whether it simply lay with Kratosh’s corpse somewhere—perhaps just behind this door. She needed to know.

“The puzzle is behind this door, I presume,” she said, giving her companions an almost indiscernible nod to indicate she had a plan. Kerran turned to face the golems, his sword at the ready in case they attacked but he returned her nod with one of his own that said I have your back.

“Naturally,” the ghost replied.

“We need to see it. We cannot make a decision without knowing what we are getting into.”

“It’s quite simple, actually…”

“We need to see it!” Manandiel’s voice was cold and forceful.

“It matters not. As I said, you have no choice in the matter.”

“I think we do. Your golems don’t scare us. With my magic and my companion’s berzerker force, we will take them down before their addled minds even register what happened.”

“Magic, you say?” Kratosh sounded intrigued.

“Elven magic! Strong enough to even destroy you!” Manadiel’s eyes did not blink.

The apparition eyed her for a long moment, as if trying to measure her response. He cast a look at Thondur and the others and received dangerous glares in return. Manadiel turned her head lightly to clearly reveal her elven ears.

“An elf and a dwarf…together. Most peculiar.” He paused and pondered.

“Destroy me then,” he challenged the elf at length.

“I’d rather not,” Manandiel said, her voice suddenly gentle. “You were a dwarf of Rikkaz-Dûm once. Respected. Beloved. You deserve better than elven magic to put you down like some meaningless…ghost.”

“Rikkaz-Dûm. It has been long since I’ve heard that name. It is true…what do you propose?”

“Open the door. Let us see the puzzle. If we feel confident we can solve the puzzle, we will…and give you peace.”

“And if not?”

“We will walk out of here. Through your golems. Through you…or from you. That will be your choice, then.”

“Very well.”

9

Rest of the High Priests

The ghost of Kratosh floated towards the door and with an outstretched hand, touched one of the symbols. In an instant, the symbol sprang to life with a lucid blue glow. The glow spread along paths to another symbol, from where other paths emerged, finding more symbols scattered across the door’s surface, each of which eventually flickered to life also. Once the entire pattern was illuminated, the companions heard a crack reverberating through the hall. One by one, the symbols retracted into the rock until only their glow emerged from the vague openings. A shudder went through the door that loosed dust and debris, which dropped to the ground with a soft pitter-patter, and remained. Another shudder, and cracks appeared in the structure—individual panels that surrounded the doorway, each forming a jagged edge that followed one of the intricate patterns now visible in the stone. In a succession of rapid rotations, the panels slid away and disappeared into the wall with a loud grinding sound. Then all was silent.

The door opened out into another hall. It appeared to be much larger than this one, though Thondur could not be altogether sure. A large stairway blocked the view leading up to the main hall. It was illuminated by lights similar to the one that had appeared in the brazier, casting the room in the same sickly green hue.

“The Rest of the High Priests,” the ghost said as he floated across the threshold in an imitation of a walk. “Kwun-Kaaq,” as the ancient ones called it.

Flanked by walls, the stairway led up towards the light of the main hall. Manandiel nocked an arrow and awakened a flame at its tip. She gave the golems another quick glance, but still they stood, unmoving and expressionless next to the barred exit.

“Let’s see what this is all about then,” Thondur said with conviction and began climbing the stairs. “Halls like these are made for dwarves, not elves, so I shall take the lead.”

“This one was made for the dead,” Manandiel replied in a flat tone. “And death cares not about race.”

“Dwarven. Providing solid rock over their heads to rest in peace.” Thondur retorted. His mind wandered back to Unrakul and its ice coffins, where tormented dwarven souls were forced to lie under an open sky. The notion put more terror in his bones than the prospect of whatever might await them at the top of those stairs.

“Lead on, then” Manandiel said magnanimously, her bow creaking lightly as she pulled the string and aimed towards the end of the stairs.

With a firm grasp on his hammer, Thondur climbed the first steps, following Kratosh, who had floated up the stairs and disappeared from sight. Upon reaching the fourth step, Thondur knew he was in trouble when the rock gave under the weight of his feet. He froze, not daring to lift his foot, lest he release whatever he had just triggered.

“Trap!” His voice sounded strangled. Unwilling to move, he tried to use his eyes to point towards the floor. “I stepped on a trigger.”

“Do not move,” Panfire was instantly alert. From the bottom of the stairs, he scanned the stairway but if there were other triggers, they were perfectly camouflaged in the dirt, dust and debris of the ages. What would it trigger?

He ran his eyes along the walls that lined the stairway. Carvings in the stone. Probably more than mere decoration. Very carefully, he sidled up to one of the carvings and inspected it up close. What appeared to be a geometric, round pattern, vaguely reminiscent of curved blades and vines, turned out to be the disguise for a most devious trap. A wire, thin as a troll’s hair, ran down the wall to the steps and disappeared in the debris as it ran to the other wall.

The halfling ran his finger across the wire and instantly felt a sting as it nicked his skin. Sharp as a razor! After all these centuries…

“One more step and this wire will slice you in two,” he warned Thondur, examining how it disappeared inside the wall through a small hole. “There must be a mechanism that pulls the wire taut when the trigger is released.”

He pulled a glove from his belt and put it on as he went down on his haunches. He sheathed the sword and instead produced a heavy hunting knife. The leather protected him from getting cut as he slowly picked up the wire with his gloved hand and then cut it with a saw-like section of his blade, careful not to put any tension on the wire while doing so.

“Do not move yet,” he warned the dwarf. “I need to disarm the other side as well, unless you want to lose your foot.”

“Get on with it,” the dwarf grumbled.

Panfire ignored him and made a wide circle to the opposite wall where he cut the wire in the same fashion.

“All clear,” he announced at last as he took a step back, away from the stairs. “Come back down…slowly.”

Thondur hesitated for a moment, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead. His eyes turned to the ceiling, admiring the masterful stonework. If I die, this is just as good a place as any dwarf could hope for. Surrounded by solid rock. Then he raised his foot.

There was an audible click in the left wall, followed by the sound of rope running rapidly across wood. It lasted for a fraction of a second before it ended abruptly with a heavy thud.

“A counter-balance system,” Thondur said, already finding his own self again.

“Why didn’t you warn us?” Thondur yelled when the ghost of Kratosh appeared at the top of the stairs.

“I was not aware…” Kratosh said. “I am ethereal. I pass through things…cannot touch…” His voice trailed off wistfully.

“Are there any more…?” Thondur asked, but the ghost had already turned and floated out of sight.

“Let me take the lead,” Panfire suggested. “Step only where I stepped. And keep your eyes open. Check everywhere!”

The halfling went into a stopped crouch and nimbly went up the stairs, one step at a time, followed by his companions. They reached the top without further incident but found themselves drenched in sweat instead.

Before them lay an enormous hall. Pillars encircled the entire room. They rose straight up like giants’ arms to hold up the ceiling, some forty feet or so above them. Each column was made from a finely polished granite, perfect and magnificent. At the heart of the hall, their eyes were drawn to an elevated platform, illuminated by the glow of magic flames. The flames hovered in the air, creating a strange canopy of light above the large stone altar that dominated the platform. The flames had an unnatural coloration, and were deeply saturated. With nothing in sight to hold the flames in place, they were suspended, solely by magic.

“Step closer,” Kratosh said. He had positioned himself at the bottom of the few steps that led up to the platform. “This is the puzzle.”

Panfire raised a hand to hold back his companions and allowed his eyes to make the rounds. He explored every nook with his gaze and examined each of the tiles on the ground. At one point, he even lay flat on the floor to look across the evenly tiled floor to ensure that none of the seams stood out. When, at last, he was satisfied, he gave his friends a nod of approval.

Manandiel was the first to approach the platform. She had her bow slung over her shoulders and had, instead, opted to arm herself with her curved knives. One in each hand, she held them in a reverse grip like a seasoned expert, ready to slash at the slightest provocation. She surveyed the steps leading up to the flat-topped ritual stone while her companions approached behind her. Confident that no trap awaited her, she climbed the three steps and stood before the altar. Almost immediately, Thondur joined up beside her.

Arranged in a semicircle, five skulls rested upon the altar. Thondur examined them carefully and thought he could identify them as human, orcish, dwarven, elven and trollish. A strange collection, he thought. He reached for the dwarven skull but Manandiel quickly stayed his hand.

“Easy does it,” she said. She used the tip of an arrow to angle for the skull and lifted it slowly off the surface. Instantly, a sharp spike of light emerged from the canopy of magic above the altar and struck the skull. A small cloud of smoke rose from the point of impact and the smell of singed dust lingered in the air.

“Everything is trapped in here,” the half-elf said with one raised eyebrow. She turned to Kratosh. “Is this how you died?”

“Not right away.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“I approached, as did you. Despite the glorious dwarven structure, I could tell that other influences were at work also. This magic was different. No Khazâd would violate the sanctity of death in such a macabre way.” Manandiel noted how Kratosh used the native word for dwarves in his description, as if it held more meaning for him.

“These skulls belonged to someone,” the ghost continued. “To have them on display, almost as a lure felt…sullied. I never touched them—out of respect.”

“What did you do?” Manandiel pressed him.

“You may have noticed the ornament of jade that has been worked into the surface of the altar.”

Manandiel looked down and noticed the pattern of green streaks that ran across the surface. Each skull sat on a patch of green gemstone that had been finely worked into the stone. She followed the patterns with her eyes and saw that each of them was connected to the others by a series of intertwined lines.

There was a single, unoccupied patch of green at the center of the semi-circle, surrounded by a series of strange symbols, and it, too, was connected to the remaining patches by an intricate and most delicate outcropping of jade branches.

“I touched it…”

“What happened?”

“The memory eludes me. I awoke—like this.”

“So you don’t even know what the puzzle is? How would you know it is a puzzle at all?”

“Well, it is obvious, is it not?”

“Is it?”

“Look at it! The magic, the skulls, the altar, the connections. It was clearly designed as a challenge.”

“Perhaps elves and dwarves are truly so dissimilar, but what I see is not a challenge but some kind of worship,” Manandiel said. “A test, at best.”

“Worship? Only a long-ear could see it that way…Worships don’t involve skulls. They involve stone carvings, statues chiseled from rock…”

Manandiel groaned, though Thondur understood well enough that it wasn’t for the insult the dwarven ghost had hurled at her but for his incredibly narrow mind. That’s what happens when you spend too much time underground, he thought, cursing his own kin—something that did not happen very often, but with increasing frequency nonetheless.

“Even my dwarven view,” he took over the conversation with some self-import, “cannot detect a puzzle here. To my eyes, this is indeed a place of worship. No more. Relics, protection spells…deadly, I admit, but far from extraordinary.”

He could see that in her mind, Manandiel had already moved on. The matter of a puzzle was no longer of import to her and instead she seemed more concerned with what had happened to Kratosh and how they could obtain his staff. She rounded the altar slowly, first examining the set-up, then turning her back on it and examining the hall as a whole.

“It matters little,” Kratosh replied. “As I have said, I have worked out the puzzle, regardless. The skulls can kill you when you touch them. The patch I touched in my naïvety brings the altar to life, and it will allow you to reconfigure the skulls. Get them in the right order, which I have figured out, and the door back there will open.” The ghost pointed towards the far back of the room.

“Can you still do magic?” She asked, turning only her face to Kratosh.

The apparition began to fidget.

“Well, can you?” she demanded.

“If I could do magic still, do you think I would allow myself to be incarcerated here?”

“How then would you have worked out the puzzle? You can’t touch the altar…you don’t recall what happened to you…Yet you know that rearranging the skulls is the puzzle, you say you know the correct order, and that it will open that door…how would you possibly know all that?”

The apparition hovered nervously. “I had time to think about it…”

As before, Manandiel used the tip of an arrow to explore the altar. Only this time, she placed the point firmly onto the empty field at the center of the semicircle. Immediately, the patch of jade sprang to life and began to exude a golden aura, the hue radiating from inside the stone. The symbols surrounding the patch also lit up. They took on a life of their own and virtually leapt off the stone surface to hang suspended in the air, pulsating with the same golden glow.

The interwoven lines of jade that ran across the altar like vines also began to pulsate, as if some energy ran through them, trying to reach the skulls. When it did, the respective skulls rose into the air and hovered there, held in place by some unseen force.

The canopy of magic hanging over the altar became more agitated and tendrils lashed out, striking the skulls in random order. Manandiel watched and made sure to keep a respectable distance. When the eyes of one of the skulls began to glow, she lifted the arrow tip from the altar and broke the contact. The skulls floated back to their original positions and the glow quickly disappeared. All was as before.

Satisfied with her experiment, she descended from the pedestal and looked around the room until her eyes came to pause on a pile of skeletons in one of the far corners.

“One of them you?” She asked the question without looking at Kratosh and before the ghost could reply, she had made her way there in a light run. The tip of her arrow poked and rummaged through the bones, set aside some pieces of clothing, armor and valuables. Thondur assumed she hoped to find Kratosh’s staff but if she did, she came away disappointed.

“I know what this is,” she finally said, confronting the ghostly apparition head-on. Her expression was harsh and unforgiving, her mouth pressed into a thin line.

“You may want to step away from the altar, Thondur,” she warned. “It’s a soul forge!”

“A soul forge? To do what?” As he spoke, Thondur was already backing away slowly, as he joined the other companions at the bottom of the platform.

“To shape someone’s soul into something for which it was not intended.”

Her face was now within inches of the ghost’s.

“What exactly are you up to? Why would you want to enslave our souls?” Manandiel cocked her head. The question was quite evidently rhetorical because she addressed no one in particular. She continued to study the dead eyes of the ghost when her face suddenly changed. “You are one of them…you are a Cruciati abomination!”

10

Truth to Light

A burst of light exploded from the apparition, so bright that the companions had to shield their eyes. Instinctively, Manandiel took a step back but she never lost sight of the ghost. When the light faded, Kratosh was no longer an apparition, however, but a dwarf of flesh and blood.

“I have found my true calling here,” he said, his gesture encompassing the hall as a whole. “I have found enlightenment through the Master.”

“Master?”

“Thum-Kairn, the Archon, our all-knowing leader.”

“Thum-Kairn?” Thondur said. “You serve the enslaver of the world?”

“Enlightenment, as I said. He will save the world.”

“He is a scourge! Our bane! In his name, armies have corrupted millions, killed thousands, burned villages, ravaged cities, violated men and woman across the continent!”

“You would not understand—I take great pride in my work.”

“Your work…to steal souls and turn them into…what?”

“I create Tormentors! Generals in the army of the Master to purge the world of the filth tha—”

Before Kratosh was able to finish his sentence, a small blade ran across his neck and a needle-fine cut appeared on his throat that quickly grew wider. Thondur registered that no blood seemed to gush from the wound as he would have expected, but already the body sagged and collapsed to the floor.

Showing little emotion, Manandiel stepped forward and examined the heap on the ground. “There is no staff!”

“Of course not,” exclaimed a voice from the other end of the hall. “There is no dwarf, either.”

A figure stood on a small balcony on the opposite end, overlooking the hall. Dwarven in stature, it wore a shimmering cloak over its light armor and held a large alabaster staff in its right hand. Beautifully adorned by metalworks, the staff was crowned by a large crystal ball that shone brightly, as a fury of white fire whirled restlessly inside.

Kerran lifted the robes from the floor and quickly realized that, indeed, Kratosh’s body had vanished.

“A trick!” he said.

“An illusion, of course,” the real Kratosh replied from across the room. “You saw what I wanted you to see. And now you will die!”

The dwarf stamped the staff on the ground with a loud clack. A fireblast shot through the room, straight at Manandiel. Another clack of the staff and a second fiery missile was directed at Thondur, who still stood close to the altar. Caught entirely by surprise, the dwarf barely had time to evade the fiery onslaught and he landed on his back.

Soon, the entire room was engulfed in flames. Kratosh kept firing at them at such a high rate that it was almost impossible for the companions to evade the barrage of fireballs the staff was spitting out. Their best strategy was to spread out so that the dwarf had to aim with every shot instead of catching them in a cluster and incinerating them all at once. They ducked and rolled across the floor, taking cover behind columns, but there was little protection from the magical flames. Again and again, the dwarven mage hurled his fiery magic towards them. The relentless barrage stole their sight and kept them on the defense.

At last, the inferno abated, presumably as Kratosh’s continued use of magic began to exhaust his mortal body.

Thondur was surprised to see that, against all odds, he was still alive. He had found shelter behind the altar, out of the direct line of fire, but the smell of his singed hair told the unmistakable story that not all parts of him had found the necessary protection. He cared little. Hair grew back, and a bit of scorched skin would heal soon enough.

Slowly, he lifted his head and peeked across the slab of the altar, trying to find the fire mage up on his balcony. To his surprise, he saw no one. Instead, a strong arm grabbed him from behind and whirled him around. Kratosh’s eyes bored straight into him, like fiery lances.

“What is a dwarf truly doing here? And in such company…with an elf!” Kratosh’s voice was a snarl. He made a wide gesture at the room.

“The dwarves of Rikkaz-Dûm need your help.”

A gurgled laugh escaped the corrupted dwarf’s throat. “Those fools. Timid! Weak! Afraid of the dark…”

“Unlike you,” Manandiel said from nearby. Thondur could not tell where she was. His eyes never left those of the dwarven mage. “You rather preferred to embrace the dark…”

“They had no idea what they had discovered. No idea of the power…” Kratosh did not blink, the fire within his eyes burned unabated. “I harnessed the beast, and I brought it here. Would you like to meet her?”

11

The Beast Unleashed

Darkness killed the light across the room, except for the fireball hurling around inside the orb of Kratosh’s staff. In the darkness was a presence—one Thondur could feel long before he could see it. An intense energy that made him feel uneasy.

Strange, he thought. A dwarf, afraid of the dark?

He felt the ground shake under his feet. Lightly at first, but growing in intensity.

It’s not the darkness itself, but what it portends.

The grating sound of a portcullis being raised echoed through the chamber. Its metallic rattling and scraping still reverberated sharply from the stone walls, whenever he could make out movement. A shape appeared from the newly opened doorway across the hall.

Shrouded in darkness, the bulky form moved on four legs and Thondur recognized the sound of hooves on the stone floor. His eyes were desperately trying to pierce the darkness, but to no avail. The darkness was too complete and all he could make out was a vague shape. With the unseen menace approaching, his sense of dread disappeared and was replaced by his survival instincts. The sound of breathing from enormous lungs came to his ears, followed by a deep and guttural snorting as the creature slowly moved towards them.

A flicker of light appeared…two, in fact, piercing the blackness. Eyes!

In that instant of recognition, they turned from midnight black to flaming pits of fury. Thondur’s hair in the nape of his neck stood on edge. When the eyes were fully ablaze, a mane for fire appeared around the creature’s neck, crowning the whole head and running down, along the spine. Flames dripped to the ground, like burning pitch, leaving little puddles on the ground.

Two enormous horns protruded from the beast’s forehead, shiny as black glass.

Magnificent! Thondur knew the thought was absurd, but it was nonetheless strangely accurate. In the light of the licking flames, he recognized, at last, what they were facing. A gorgon, all wrapped up in flames, twice the size of the buffalo roaming the northern plains of Caledony.

“Meet the Styccian Gorgon!” Kratosh’s voice mocked them.

Walking on all fours, the gorgon’s legs were packed with solid muscles, its hooves stomping the stone floor with such force that the rock began to crumble beneath their impact. A deep-chested roar escaped the beast as it sized up the companions, before raising itself to its hoofed hind feet to show off its formidable height.

Undeterred by the display, Manandiel had already begun to release a hail of arrows onto the beast. She aimed them squarely at the body, but among the sea of fire that engulfed the creature, it was impossible to tell if they did any harm at all. Thondur stormed forward, his war hammer in a white-knuckle grasp in both hands. From the corner of his eyes he could see Kerran’s blade glint. The human warrior disappeared from Thondur’s sight, circling the creature and throwing himself upon its unprotected hind.

Thondur prepared a full-powered running swing with his hammer, and was deeply satisfied when he felt the heavy metal head connect with his opponent’s leg. With a deep growl, the gorgon swept its head from one side to the other, a trail of fire following its every move. Thondur was forced to duck and backpedal to stay out of the reach of the vicious tendrils of fire. Fortunately, he maintained his balance and as the gorgon’s head swayed his way, the dwarf swung his hammer once more, hitting the gorgon deftly on the side of its head.

A bellowing cry came from the beast’s muzzle, followed by a huff of steam that quickly expanded and turned into a singeing sea of fire of its own right. Thondur backed away from the gorgon as fast as he could force himself to move. The whites of his eyes widened with alarm, as the flames expanded and crawled across the floor towards him.

An arrow zinged past his ears, its tip engulfed in a white aura. When it hit the gorgon in the soft under-neck, Thondur noticed that ice rapidly spread from the point of impact, but it was just as quickly consumed by the flames. Another arrow found its target, placed in exactly the same spot, and the effect repeated itself. Not even Manandiel’s ice magic was strong enough to overcome the gorgon’s flaming aura.

With a sudden flash, Kerran’s sword appeared from behind the beast. The warrior was slashing furiously at its exposed back, drawing thick blood but without slowing down the monster itself.

“Stay back, everyone!” Panfire yelled at the top of his lungs to make sure his voice could be heard over the din of battle and the gorgon’s vicious snarls. He held up a translucent orb, roughly the size of a fruit, that contained a dim swirling mist inside. The halfling shook the orb vigorously, causing it to flare up. As he did so, the fog inside became agitated and swirled with a brilliant bright glow as if illuminating itself from within.

“What is that?” Thondur asked, but the answer was already rolling along the floor, straight towards the gorgon.

“Close your eyes!” Panfire’s voice was so commanding that Thondur immediately pressed his eyelids shut, unsure what to expect.

A flash, brighter than the midday sun, illuminated the room for a split second. The light was so pure that Thondur could see the hall even through his closed lids. He also saw the gorgon rearing on its hind legs with a painful growl that rumbled sonorously through the chamber. Never had the dwarf experienced anything like it, but he knew that pressing his eyes shut was the only thing that prevented him from going blind—temporarily or forever, who knew?

Completely disoriented and unable to see, the gorgon had descended back on all fours and was carefully trying a retreat. But stumbling and on unsteady footing, unable to see where it was going, it was now more prey than hunter. Kerran jumped on its back and plunged the blade of his sword deep into the beast’s back with the vigor of a madman. The slippery stream of blood made it hard for him to hang on, but the effect was noticeable. The flames surrounding the beast’s head and neck began to abate, losing their efficacy as the beast’s life energy began to drain away.

Thondur took heart and ran toward the monster, his hammer once again primed. With a swing that carried all of his strength, he jerked the hammer forward and hit the gorgon’s exposed jawline. The beast’s teeth and jaw gave way with a sickening crunch, torn flesh hanging off the exposed bone, blood and saliva dripping from the wound.

Another ice-tipped arrow hit the creature in the neck and this time, the ice spread more easily, undeterred by the flames that were dying now. Manandiel followed it up with another well-placed shot, just below the neck, and the gorgon’s front legs collapsed. The large, horned head crashed to the ground in a thunderous impact that was accompanied by a spine-chilling shriek. The creature knew it was dying.

By now, Kerran had managed to crawl along the gorgon’s spine and the warrior raised his sword blade high. He rammed the steel between the beast’s shoulder blades and sank it into the flesh all the way to the hilt. With a shudder and a gurgle, the gorgon exhaled one last time before its life ebbed away and the body collapsed entirely.

With the beast defeated, Thondur’s eyes searched for Kratosh, who had been sidelined throughout the encounter. As his eyes swept the room, he noticed that the golems had come to life and were lumbering in their direction. Made from nothing but the rock of the mountain, they were formidable opponents—even without weapons. Almost by reflex, Thondur began to retreat from the approaching behemoths when his eyes settled on Kratosh.

Clearly, the mage had recovered his energy and focus and was by now in the process of conjuring another spell. Already, the white fireball at the top of his staff was glowing brilliantly and swirled around more energetically than before. Something bad was going to happen, and soon.

Kratosh’s voice rose as he formed the magic words to cast the spell, but the sound was cut short abruptly. A wet gurgle was all the wizard could utter as the shaft of one of Manandiel’s arrows pierced his throat, penetrating his neck from the front and protruding from the back. The fire mage’s eyes opened as the horrific realization hit home of what had just happened—and what was about to come!

With a throaty moan, he attempted to stop the events, but the damage was done. His spell, with its conjuration incomplete and garbled, misfired. Accompanied by the sound of human agony, Kratosh was quickly engulfed in his own flames. They ate at him, their fiery tongues licking every inch of his body, turning his skin black and eagerly consuming his robes. Within seconds, Kratosh was gone, leaving behind only wisps of black ash floating through the air, drifting like feathers to the ground, where they settled and disintegrated.

Simultaneously, the golems collapsed. With the magic gone that kept them alive, they simply crumbled into a heap of rubble and boulders with naught but a rising cloud of dust to indicate they had ever existed.

The sudden peace and the silence that fell over the hall were, in their own way, deafening—until Thondur rushed towards Kratosh’s remains. “No—! No, no, no…the staff!”

His eyes searched the ground as if the staff could be hidden in some crack in the floor and suddenly materialize. “We lost the staff! The entire journey…in vain. By the Forge of Hadruf, we failed!”

“We are still alive,” Manadiel responded. She shouldered her bow and approached the dwarf. “That alone was no easy task.”

“But, we have failed. What about the dwarves of Rikkaz-Dûm? We promised…”

“A promise can go only so far,” the elf replied. “It was beyond our control—from the beginning, I fear. The dwarves will simply have to find another way to open that door. Even though, we failed, they are no worse off than they were before.”

“You should take a look at this!” Panfire’s voice hailed them from across the room. The halfling stood high up on a ledge, the same balcony where Kratosh had originally appeared. “There is a hidden door here.”

“How did he get up there?” Kerran sheathed his massive sword.

“There is a ledge along the wall. It is almost invisible. Very nice work,” the halfling said and pointed to a corner of the room.

When Thondur reached the wall, he knew exactly what Panfire was talking about. A ledge, barely a foot wide, had been worked into the wall in such a way it was almost imperceptible from afar. “An optical illusion,” he said.

Panfire awaited them at the end of the ledge where the wall curved away and made room for a spacious platform. At the center of the wall, a deep crack ran along the uneven surface. Panfire pushed against the wall and the crack widened, revealing a narrow doorway.

“Completely invisible when closed,” the halfling explained.

“How did you find it?” Manadiel asked.

“Well, that dwarf had to come from somewhere, right? So, I got curious and while you were all busy fighting and stuff, I decided to take a closer look.”

“But how did you find an invisible door?” Thondur knew that dwarven secret doors, when closed, were truly indistinguishable from the surrounding rock.

“Well, it was bit ajar. So, there was this crack…that kind of gave it away…and, of course, my curiosity and, mostly, my experience…”

Kerran gave the halfling a hearty pad on the back. “You did well, Panfire. Much better than I did. I would never even have found the ledge to get up here.”

Panfire’s face brightened with genuine pride.

“Let’s see what’s behind it,” Manandiel suggested. She approached the doorway and pushed it all the way open. It revealed a small room, spartan, in many ways, but with tables and shelves lining the walls, that were stacked with books and parchments.

“A preparation room,” the elf mumbled. “Kratosh must have used it for his studies—”

Her words were caught short as she noticed a smoldering bundle of something on the floor, at the feet of a large wooden chair. Charred beyond recognition, the bundle looked slightly human. It was heaving weakly, clearly in its final death throes. Clasped in its seared hand there was a large alabaster staff with a crystal orb.

“Kratosh!” Manandiel said as she approached the bundle. “A Refuge spell must have returned his body here.”

With a weak sigh, the bundle heaved once more, then collapsed entirely. The clasp around the Glass Moon Staff, loosened and the incinerated remains of Kratosh lay lifelessly before them.

Thondur stepped beside the smoking corpse and reached for the staff.

“Don’t touch it!” Manandiel hissed between clenched teeth and she held out a hand to stay the dwarf. “Magic!”

Instead, she pulled a piece of burlap from her pack and wrapped the staff, careful never to touch the artifact itself and mindful to cover every inch of it. Kerran helped her tie the burlap with leather straps to secure the cover in place. When they were finished, the warrior slung the staff over his back.

“It would appear we have not failed, after all,” Manandiel said and smiled at Thondur. “We should return this to Rikkaz-Dûm. They must be waiting.”

12

Rikkaz-Dûm

With a flick of her wrist, Manandiel pulled the last of the leather strings that kept the burlap tied, as she carefully placed the bundle on the finely carved stone table before the dwarven congregation that had assembled around them. With nimble fingers, she slowly pulled the rough-spun cloth aside to reveal its contents.

Bandruf’s eyes gleamed as brightly as the Polar Star of the North on the Winter Solstice when he saw what Manandiel had just unwrapped. Before him lay the Glass Moon Staff of Kratosh.

The companions had just returned from their perilous journey, the staff always carefully wrapped and hidden from sight on their trek back to Khul’gurath, the glorious capital of Rikkaz-Dûm. Their arrival at the gates of the dwarven city had instantly stirred folks and created enough rumors to fill a tome. This time, not because a half-elf was entering through the main gate, but because gossip of their quest to retrieve the legendary staff had by now traveled far and wide, even into the remotest corners of their dwarven realm.

As the companions had made their way up the steps to the main entrance of the keep, Thondur had overheard many of the exchanges of the folks around them. Everyone was wondering if they could possibly have been successful in their quest, when so many others before them had evidently failed.

“It looks just as I remember it,” Bandruf said. He rose from his stone chair to take a closer look, but when he began to reach for it, Manandiel quickly prevented him from touching the magnificent staff.

“The staff is highly magic—protection charms, spells of dark nature, are bound to it. You must not touch it! Only an experienced magic user will be able to wield it.”

The dwarf gave the half-elf a dismissive look, as if to say that no elf-blood should tell him what to do, but he quickly seemed to think better of it and his expression softened. His eyes wandered to Thondur, who nodded a silent confirmation.

“Thank you for the warning…Manandiel, was your name?” Bandruf said. The dwarf smiled personably. He gestured at the empty chairs around the table and looked from one companion to the other. His eyes came to rest on Panfire for an instant, realizing that he had not met the companion before. “Please have a seat. You all must be exhausted!”

He turned, snapped his fingers and called for ale. “Let us make our friends feel at home!”

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Manandiel said. She lowered her travel pack and set aside her bow before taking a seat. The other companions joined her, each glad to take the weight off their feet and eager to quench their parched throats with a mug of the dwarves’ amber liquid.

“I do not think we have met.” Panfire stuck out his hand eagerly. “Panfire at your service.”

“Panfire,” Bandruf said. “A most unusual name.”

The dwarf took the halfling’s hand and shook it vigorously. “So you were part of this expedition?”

“Indeed I was and I’ll be happy to tell you all about it.”

For the hours following, the companions rested in the company of dwarves. They filled their bellies with enough beer and food to make light of the dreadful ordeal they had just gone through while they retold their story. They left out nothing: not the encounter with the Cruciator, nor the priests at the temple, nor the battle against walking skeletons. Yet when it came time to talk about Kratosh, everyone fell silent.

“That’s when we met Kratosh,” Thondur announced with some foreboding. He reached for a communal pouch of tobacco and stuffed his pipe with the finely cut leaves. Manandiel handed him a burning stick and he lit the pipe with strong, deep puffs until, at last, he was ready to tell about the encounter.

“When we first met Kratosh he was a mere apparition.”

“An apparition?” Bandruf looked incredulous. “A ghost?”

“In a way, but it’s more complicated than that.” Thondur continued to recount the events that led up to their encounter with the Styccian Gorgon and, ultimately, Kratosh’s defeat.

“Such evil…” Bandruf’s voice was shaking with anger.

“I do not think he was an evil person,” Manandiel said.

“Certainly the person I knew was not,” Bandruf interjected. “He may have been eccentric, but in the many years that I knew him, he would never have hurt a rock salamander.”

“That was my impression, too,” Manandiel said, though probably more to provide comfort than out of real conviction. “And yet, he was tempted…somehow…by something. It allowed him to become a tool for the Cruciati madness.”

“What exactly did he do?”

“He used the soul forge to take possession of a person. It destroyed the physical life, leaving behind a hollow shell that he would fill with a horribly twisted version of the person’s soul. It would be so contorted that it would nevermore see the light. The soul forge turns people into Tormentors!”

“You mean…Kratosh made Tormentors?”

Manandiel did not reply. The sad expression in her eyes told all there was to know.

“Well, with Kratosh gone and this…soul forge destroyed, you’ve done a good thing for everyone in this world. Returning the staff to us is but a pale achievement by comparison.”

The companions were in no mood to contradict such praise. Instead, they raised their mugs and had another sip.

“You should be wary of what you might find inside that chamber, though” Manandiel warned Bandruf after another sip. “Kratosh may have removed the gorgon from that chamber, but you should still be very careful when you open it. Who knows what else you might find in there.”

“You’re such a peever,” Panfire laughed. “If there were any more magic, I am sure he would have been the first to exploit it.”

“Perhaps you’re right, but still, I suggest caution.”

“No disrespect, my friend,” Bandruf said, wiping some foam off his beard with the back of his hand. “We are dwarves. We know our way about underground. Do not worry!”

“You’re probably right,” Manadiel agreed, clinking her mug against his in a hearty toast.

The festivities continued well into the night and in the morning, rested and satiated—though also slightly hung over—the companions prepared to leave Rikkaz-Dûm, each of them with a new prized possession made of mithril silver. Thondur and Manandiel had both selected a chain mail shirt made from the precious metal, while Kerran had opted for a new breast plate. Panfire, unassuming as was his nature, had requested a pair of enchanted mithril bracers. What enchantment he had selected, he kept a secret, but he kept looking at them with a shy smile every opportunity he had, admiring the delicate runes and ornaments that had been engraved in the shiny metal.

The companions set out from Khul’gurath, ready to head north into the wilderness and on into Uërland. They left the north gate behind well before noon and followed the Alvagar river through the foothills. The massive wall that spanned the river valley was still within sight when suddenly the ground under their feet shook violently. A rumble came from the mountains that could be felt deep inside their bones.

Thondur turned and stared, unable to process what he was seeing. His jaw dropped slack. The cap of one of the nearby mountains had exploded in an enormous cloud of smoke and debris. Large boulders of rock were flung high into the air and rained down onto the wound in the mountain that now also began to spew fire. Rising in an angry column, the fumes and dust created an undulating cloud that soon blotted out the sun and turned the sky’s azure blue into an ugly ashen gray.

While the companions still recuperated, a second explosion rocked the mountains, equally violent, equally devastating. A burst of molten rock hailed forth from the previously created gaping mouth, illuminating the surroundings with an incandescent orange glow. In coruscating waves, the fiery molten rock fell back to the ground, leaving trails of smoke that hung in the air before they, too, were absorbed in the ever-growing cloud of smoke.

A moment later, a roar echoed through the valleys and canyons. It was bigger and more visceral than any roar Thondur had ever heard in his long life. Deep and bellowing, it was the roar of something ancient, something that had just awakened. There was movement also in the roiling caldera of the explosion, not just from the flow of the molten rock. Something else moved!

“This is not good,” Kerran said, without a hint of irony

“They have unleashed some kind of beast!” Manandiel’s voice was tinged with trepidation.

A scaled, arching back emerged from the inferno, only to immediately disappear again amidst a plume of rising black smoke. A long tail appeared and disappeared just as quickly, but long enough for the companions to catch a glimpse of its scaled hide, tipped with dangerous spikes along the spine.

“It can’t be….” Thondur began to run towards Khul’gurath. “We must help them or the city will be lost. It’s our fault!”

“Our fault?” Manandiel asked.

“The Glass Moon Staff of Kratosh! They must have opened the gate…What did we unleash?”

About Guido Henkel

I am a Game developer and author… and so many things more. I cover all facets of the creative spectrum. With award-winning computer role-playing games, such as the Realms of Arkania series and Planescape: Torment, under my belt, I am also the author of eleven individual supernatural adventures featuring the team of ghost hunters, Jason Dark and Siu Lin. Please check out the previews on the following pages.

I would love to hear from you. Tell me what you thought of the book you just read, which parts you liked best, which you didn’t. I am always eager for feedback as it helps me understand the expectations my readers have. Simply send an email to ghenkel@guidohenkel.com

Please also visit my personal blog at www.guidohenkel.com to learn about all the great things going on, or what thoughts might be on my mind at any given time. It is a great way to keep up with my developments and plans also, especially if you sign up for my newsletter.

Naturally, you can also find me on various social networks

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Ghosts Templar

Winner of the 2010 Best Occult Detective Award on occultdetective.com!

A well-known police acquaintance asks Jason Dark to discreetly look into the case of a missing Chief Constable, which is out of Scotland Yard’s jurisdiction. When Dark and Siu Lin arrive in Swanage, however, they find that the quaint English seaside village hides more than its share of horrible secrets. “Ghosts Templar” is filled with ruined castles, ghostly hoof beats in the night, and a series of macabre murders, which swirl amidst rumors that undead knights have awakened to exact a bloody revenge. Investigate if you dare.

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Heavens on Fire

When our world becomes a mere pawn in an epic battle between Heaven and Hell, Jason Dark faces a challenge that threatens to shatter the very fabric of reality. As immortal angels die, and harbingers of death and destruction escape the fiery pits of hell itself, the Geisterjäger and his companions receive a desperate call for help!

Will they be able to save mankind in the face of an onslaught of demons, or will our fate burn as brightly as the streets of London?

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The Doctor

After the passage of the Anatomy Act, surgeons have access to legally obtained corpses, yet a few individuals persist in making their illicit living from grave-robbing.

What exactly is the research of the mysterious Dr. Prometheus, who purchases these dead bodies? Could it have any connection to the wild stories regarding re-animated corpses shuffling about in some of the seedier areas of London? When Scotland Yard’s finest are baffled, Jason Dark is called in to investigate, not realizing the dangers that lie in wait even for a seasoned investigator of the occult.

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From a Watery Grave

A quaint seaside town seems the ideal place for an English summer holiday. Little do its inhabitants suspect, that a century-old curse is about to throw their idyllic existence into turmoil and terror.

Wraith-like, the black ghosts of undead mariners spread their cloak of horror over Pegwell Bay, the lure of their cursed gold too much for most to resist. Can Jason Dark and Siu Lin find the key to unlock their secrets and lift the curse from beyond the grave before more innocent townspeople die, or will some villainous trickery put even their own lives in jeopardy?

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Dead by Dawn

The unexpected death of their next door neighbor rattles Jason Dark and Siu Lin. But does a woman in good health simply drop dead by dawn?

The Geisterjäger is not convinced and suspects something more wicked and sinister is at work in London. As his investigation leads him down to the seedy underbelly of society, things more mysterious than he expected reveal themselves, making it clear that the ghost hunter will need all of his skills and resources to put an end to the horrors that stalk the night.

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The Blood Witch

An ancient curse resurfaces. From deep within the English forests, a hideous creature threatens to re-emerge, stronger than ever.

Meanwhile, young girls are disappearing from the streets of London, and rumors of heinous rituals abound. Fearing for her very life, a young actress working at the famed Lyceum Theatre calls desperately on Jason Dark for help. On the eve of Walpurgis Night, the Geisterjäger meets another formidable enemy as he comes face to face with the Blood Witch. Who will prevail?

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Terrorlord

Conjured from the bowels of the abyss by ancient magic, the Terrorlord has but one desire‌—‌to open the Seven Gates of Hell and unleash the horrors of the undead upon mankind.

Reliving the nightmares of his youth where an encounter with the Terrorlord left him scarred for life, Jason Dark must once again confront the powerful gatekeeper from Hell, and prevent his reach and power to spiral out of control. With the help of his companion, Siu Lin, the ghost hunter will have to put an end to the Terrorlord’s dark reign before he can devour our world in his evil blackness.

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Curse of Kali

Beheaded by a statue that came alive?

In Victorian London, the head of a rich writer in the hands of Hindu goddess Kali would certainly indicate so and raises some peculiar questions.

Trying to find out whether the killer was even human, Inspector Lestrade decides to consult two detectives‌—‌one, the premier authority in the crime field, the other, famed ghost hunter Jason Dark.

Despite the overwhelming evidence, Dark and Siu Lin reckon there might be an even more sinister force at work than they originally suspected‌—‌and a nemesis returns!

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Hunted

When ordinary measures are no longer enough, criminal mastermind Fu Man Chu is making use of a supernatural creature to get his way. Soon, Scotland Yard is confronted with a series of unexplainable deaths that unsettle Victorian London, and Inspector Lestrade turns to occult detectives Jason Dark and Siu Lin for help.

But as they look into the case, the ghost hunters quickly realize that the evil crime lord has already made them the henchman’s next target, and according to legend, there is no escaping this deadly monster!

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