“Skeletons? Damn your eyes, the both of you! Why didn’t you warn me I was racin’ against dead men? You musta been havin’ quite a laugh between you.”
Torgul was absolutely shame-faced.
“Nay, brother Roscoe, it ‘wasn’t like that. I swear by my beard, we would’ve told you if we could’ve, but that fat little piggy was somehow stoppin’ our mouths. I pledge my word as an Adventurer in good standin’.”
Thurmond was equally contrite.
“Torgul speaks sooth—we could not have spoken to save our souls. My tongue felt like a block of wood.”
Distraught as he was, Roscoe could not remain angry with his comrades. He knew they were telling him the truth. Lately, he had been getting upset over every little thing. What was the matter with him?
Sarah spoke up, eager to support the others.
“You must believe them, Roscoe. Asmodeus has terrible power—I could feel it. He must have known that Torgul could see through the illusion, so he sent a spell that struck them mute.”
At last, the old Adventurer relented.
“Agghh, ‘twas my own fool fault, so it was. I should’ve seen it was all a setup. Only that toad-sucker got to me with his taunts—and I got greedy for the gold.”
They sat around the table on the village common. The dwarf poured another round of mead into their goblets. The race had left them confused and worried. They were now under obligation to a capricious sorcerer with seemingly godlike abilities. What was going to happen?
They all had need of a drink and a talk—of much drink and much talk, actually.
Thurmond took a long swig of mead and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
“Asmodeus said he was coming back with instructions ….”
Then, as if the saying of his name were a spell of invocation, the sorcerer swooped down from the sky. He sat upon the back of a huge buzzard—or at least something that resembled one.
It was an ugly, ungainly creature with a wingspan at least five times the length of the biggest buzzard that ever existed. The scaly skin of its head and neck were mottled with blue and red splotches. Its beak was long, narrow, and slightly crooked. Black eyes blazed with obscene malice.
Asmodeus slid from the saddle and stroked its misshapen, reptilian head. He said something in a low voice that caused the creature to shudder with pleasure.
Reaching into a saddlebag, he withdrew a small spiny creature—it looked to be a hedgehog—which he proffered to the hell-bird much as one might give a sweet treat to a child. The little animal gave one small squeak before disappearing down the horror’s throat.
Asmodeus had changed his garb, but he still, Thurmond thought, resembled a grape. He now wore a maroon doublet and matching riding britches. His tall boots and leather jerkin were of light, complimentary lavender.
The most striking feature of this ensemble, however, was the codpiece. Projecting from a point much too low—approximately at the level of the wearer’s portly thighs—it was at least as long as an average human forearm and decorated with pearls and fine golden chains. As the sorcerer waddled toward the Adventurers, his codpiece swayed to and fro. He wasted no time with mundane pleasantries.
“I trust you are ready to start at once—as instructed.”
Asmodeus did not wait for a confirmation.
“You will proceed to the ruin known as the Chapel of Eurea the Ill-Favored. I trust you know where that is.”
Again, no pause for confirmation.
“The structure is mostly demolished, but the floor’s large paving stones are intact. With your back against the remains of the altar, take eleven paces down the center aisle toward what was once the main entrance.”
He turned and pointed directly at Thurmond.
“Use this minion for the pacing—he is the most medium-sized and will be the most accurate. After eleven paces, turn sharply left, and take three more paces. Beneath the pavers you will find an entrance to the Catacombs. The spot may be covered with rubble. If so, you must clear it away. Let no one see you during your search. This must be accomplished with the utmost discretion.”
There was no giggling this time—the little man was all business. He went on with his instructions.
“The Catacombs are extensive, as I’m sure you already know. Finding my item would be impossible without magic, so I have brought you this.”
He held out a charm suspended on a silver chain—a small human hand also cast in silver, the index finger pointing forward, the other fingers and thumb folded against the palm. He handed it to Roscoe.
“This has been attuned to the psychic vibrations of the item you must seek. Simply hold it by the chain, and it will always point in the correct direction. And do not allow yourselves to become lost. It would be all too easy for you to lose direction and die down there.”
Up to this point, the sorcerer had given no one else the chance to speak, and no one was inclined to interrupt him. But when he finally paused to take a breath, Roscoe seized the moment.
“Master Asmodeus, Sir—we will undertake to find your item as agreed. I’m certain we can provide satisfactory service ….”
The sorcerer interrupted, his tone was ominous.
“I should hope for your sake that you do, Master Applehead.”
“Aye, sir, as I was sayin’—we will most assuredly find your … uh … item. But how will we contact you when we have it?”
“You won’t have to. I’ll be watching, I’ll know.”
“Aye, sir, as you will, of course—but may I inquire, sir, as to what is happenin’ to the folks round these parts? Here and in the city both, they’re all at each other’s throats, so they are.” Asmodeus’ face twitched in a grimace of annoyance, but he answered the question.
“In the simplest of terms, something is releasing the hate that’s in us all. Men may try to conceal or deny it, but they are no more than ravening beasts, their bellies bloated by fear and greed. Their hunger for power and women and gold is insatiable. Some force is provoking those basic urges.”
Roscoe summoned his courage.
“Are you doin’ this to us, Master Asmodeus?”
The sorcerer gave him a peeved look, as if the query was utterly absurd.
“Nay, I am not.”
“Then are you tryin’ to stop it, sir? To set things right?”
Asmodeus obviously found this question even more ridiculous than the last.
“Why would I do that? Times of chaos are times of opportunity.”
Without another word, the sorcerer left them, mounted his hideous steed, and flew off in the direction of the city. The four friends stood, mouths open, staring skyward. Torgul finally broke the silence.
“That thing he was ridin’ on—that was a demon.”
After a pause, Roscoe responded.
“That would be my guess, a demon.”
Thurmond nodded.
“Definitely a demon.”
Sarah shook her head.
“I’m not certain, but I’d have to guess that it’s not actually a demon. I’d wager it’s a rather low-level fiendish entity from one of the outer levels—perhaps Limbo. Not intelligent, but capable of being trained to serve under limited circumstances.”
Roscoe looked utterly flummoxed.
“I’m sure you’re right.”
Thurmond was less concerned with the nature of the sorcerer’s steed than with the task before him.
“So, what do we do now?” Roscoe was puzzled by this question.
“Get on with the adventure—what else?”
Torgul headed to the armory. Being a dwarf, he was always happiest when his hands were busy, and there were always a thousand chores before commencing an adventure. Weapons and armor take a fair amount of upkeep—there was rust to scrub away, worn straps to replace, loose rivets to tighten. Though he was careful to keep his personal weapons keenly honed, Roscoe and Sarah, he knew, were not so attentive, so there would be need of some sharpening.
Sarah retired to her workshop to gather their occult paraphernalia. She had, during their last adventure, acquired a great pile of charms, philters, and assorted enchanted bric-a-brac, most of which remained unidentified. She did, however, possess one particular item that would prove most useful.
A scroll of fireballs—five of them. Scroll spells were particularly treacherous. These were spells inscribed on parchment that the magic user could unleash by merely reading aloud. The danger was that they were almost always unidentified, so there was no way of knowing what was coming until the spell was read. Anything might happen. The spell-caster might summon a monster or find himself knee-deep in dung.
This scroll, however, was unusual in that it was labeled—fyf fyrballez. If the inscription could be believed, this was a most potent weapon. Sarah could only hope that she possessed the psychic vigor needed to guide the fireballs to their intended targets.
She placed the scroll in a wicker pannier with her other essential items—her spell book, her wand, a grimoire she had retrieved from the hut of a dead shaman. There was room to spare, so she gathered an assortment of the unidentified charms and philters.
Roscoe asked Thurmond to join him in a quick journey into the city. They needed to enlist some stalwart fighters, preferably another half-dozen experienced Adventurers, to bolster the strength of their party. The four of them were obviously insufficient for the expedition they were about to undertake. It might not be easy to find willing recruits—the Catacombs were notoriously perilous.
Surviving from ancient Etrusian times, they extended for leagues uncounted beneath the city. They had been dug by ancient builders mining the stone for the city walls, the cathedral, the riverside quays, City Keep, and a hundred other edifices. Over the centuries, the shafts had expanded into a vast and uncharted maze. There had been many luckless wanderers, it was said, who never found their way out.
Moreover, the Catacombs were favored by smugglers who brought the illegal uisge from across the river. It was widely acclaimed that many sections were guarded by deadly booby-traps to discourage the pilfering of their highly intoxicating and extremely popular inventory.
The Catacombs were also a haven for unscrupulous miscreants engaged in every kind of corrupt and illegal enterprise—murder, heresy, sedition, and perversion. Child-eating cannibals and depraved priests sought refuge there when the gravity of their crimes denied them sanctuary anywhere above ground. Demented hermits with milk-white skin and huge, round, bulging eyes would lunge from the dark to seize anyone foolish enough to intrude into their domain.
One long section was piled high with human remains—the bones of plague victims from two or three centuries prior. This was a most dangerous passage, for the shades of the dead were angry and confused by their abrupt departure from life. They viciously set upon any living soul venturing into their realm.
But that was not the end of it. Certain old stories claimed that as the ancient miners tunneled deeper and deeper, they had broken into a labyrinth of natural caverns. Nothing specific was known of those dark and gruesome depths, but rumor maintained that few who entered ever returned. Those survivors who managed to crawl back into the light were reduced to mindless, drooling hulks incapable of speech. Better that the lower depths should remain unexplored.
The Catacombs had any number of hidden entrances scattered throughout the city, but venturing inside was strictly forbidden by law. No law-abiding citizen could have a legitimate reason for doing so. No one of sound mind would ever want to.
For several hours, the pall of smoke over the Gray Friars’ had been growing larger, darker, and more ominous. Now, as Thurmond and Roscoe rode toward the city, it had spread east to cover the Royal Highway, and south to the outskirts of Grimsgard. More troubling yet, a second and larger smoke cloud was rising from Gorgonholm. The two ill-omened clouds would soon join forces and blanket the entire area.
With the world in such discord, the two Adventurers were well prepared to defend themselves, clad in mail and with swords girded on. Their black hats had been replaced by iron helmets. Shields hung from their saddles. Roscoe brought a crossbow, while Thurmond carried a light spear. Sarah’s long dress had given way to a boy’s leather breeks. Bodo brought up the rear. He would return the horses to Grimsgard, and the Adventurers would make their way home on foot.
Arriving at the city’s South gate, they were surprised to find the massive doors barred and the drawbridge raised. No one would be allowed in or out until the civil unrest was brought under control. A crowd had gathered at the edge of the moat, watching a huge pillar of smoke and ash and embers rising above the city wall. Thurmond was relieved that none of the watchers showed signs of wanting to fight.
There they met three professional men-at-arms, archers who had come to town in search of employment. Newly arrived in Gorgonholm, they had never heard of the Catacombs nor its sinister reputation and were thus happy to be accepted into Roscoe’s service.
The archers were Gascars from the kingdom of Gasconia, far to the south. Though significantly shorter than the tall northerners, the archers’ upper bodies were massively muscled from years of drawing powerful warbows capable of penetrating mail hauberks. Each wore a stout coat-of-plates and carried a shortsword or small axe as a backup weapon. Lightweight iron caps guarded their heads. They seemed in every way like capable soldiers.
Their names were Wat, Tuck, and Cob. They had come north because the southern realms were experiencing an exasperating period of peace and prosperity. The almost interminable internecine strife between rival barons, lords, and counts had suddenly been allowed to lapse—no one could say exactly why. This unfortunate situation made things difficult for those who made their living by the sword or bow.
Thurmond noticed that each had on the right shoulder a small cloth badge displaying the sun symbol of the Charonite church. This was a little unusual, for the typical soldier was far more devoted to earthly pleasures than spiritual concerns. He decided to ask about it.
“I see the badges you’re wearing—were you in the service of some church?”
Wat, who seemed to be the smartest of the three and their spokesman, answered.
“Aye—we was workin’ for a priory what was in a feud with a village nearby. They was all the time squabblin’ over sumthin’—who got to hunt where and such like. So the Father Prior hired us to help set things straight.”
“You are no longer in his service?”
“Not no more. After we shot the lord of that village fulla arrows, the rest of his people got a lot more reasonable. The abbot didn’t need us no more, so we hadda move on.”
“Yet, you still wear the badge …”
Cob, the oldest, interrupted.
“Aye—and proud of it, too. We be the obedient servants of Holy Church, just as all men should be. I don’t see no badge of devotion upon your own self—ain’t you worried for you soul?”
Thurmond knew he was on tricky ground here. His spiritual beliefs were highly ambivalent. He knew that the world was filled with incomprehensible mysteries—he had seen some of them with his own eyes. Yet his distrust of the Church ran much too deep for him to accept the official view of things.
To admit as much was heresy. He could be severely punished, perhaps even hung, for openly doubting church doctrine. Thus, he equivocated.
“I carry my faith in my heart. I respect your right to wear yours on your sleeve, but I am a quiet man who prefers to keep his devotion to himself.”
The archer guffawed.
“You northers was always a cold and tight-lipped bunch. We Gascars ain’t afraid to proclaim our faith. But if we’re workin’ for you, then I reckon we gotta put up with your way of doin’ things.”
Thurmond took an instant dislike to Cob. He was a bit too loud, too eager for a chance to be obnoxious. Yet,1 he did not want to start a row with these three well-experienced archers. They needed their services.
Roscoe named an amount—quite a generous amount in Thurmond’s opinion. There would also be a large bonus for good and loyal service. The trio accepted eagerly.