The Chapel of Saint Eurea the Ill-Favored was located in what, a couple of hundred years ago, had been the prosperous suburb of Shrub located just beyond the city’s North Gate. Shrub had flourished until a wave of Keltin invaders had crossed the Mad River and reduced it to rubble. The area had never been resurrected and had reverted to a weed-covered waste.
Most of the fire-gutted buildings had been pulled down long ago, the stones carted away for use in subsequent structures. The walls of the chapel, however, remained intact, though it was little more than a roofless, flame-blackened shell. No one dared take those haunted stones.
Saint Eurea’s had been the final refuge for scores of women and children who sought refuge there when the Keltins swarmed up from the river. It was a poor choice. The invaders had set the edifice ablaze, and the unfortunates inside had been roasted alive. Their ghosts, it was said, still wandered about the location, seeking some resolution to their horrible fate. Anyone dumb enough to disturb them would die within a year.
They approached the chapel shortly before moonrise, moving stealthily through the dark. Though the area was supposedly uninhabited, one could never tell who might be lurking about in the shadows, so they had dismounted in the woods, well away from their destination.
Walking quietly was impossible, laden as they were with armor and equipment.
While the Adventurers were locating the hidden entrance, the archers stood to one side, arms folded, faces set in disapproving scowls, occasionally exchanging subdued whispers. Finally, Cob shouted out.
“We’ll not stand by and watch you rob Holy Church.”
Sarah stood atop a section of fallen column, keeping watch against unexpected visitors. She did not like the tone in the Cob’s voice.
“What did you just say?”
“I said we ain’t gonna have you stealing God’s gold—that’s what I said, girl.”
The emphasis he put on the word girl was more aggravating than anything else he said. She was a fully-fledged Adventurer in her own right, the first female to receive such recognition. She had won her black hat and wyvern tattoo by facing off with goblins, kobolds, evil witches, and revenants from the tomb. Aye—and more than a few grubby mercenaries.
Sarah climbed down from the column. She was not about to swallow such disrespect, especially from some churlish southerner.
“Listen, when you were hired, you swore to give loyal service. That means you follow ord ….”
Cob interrupted.
“That don’t include church robbin’. No oath binds a man to steal from Allfather Charon. We ain’t lettin’ you do it neither.”
Roscoe placed a firm hand on Sarah’s shoulder, but his words were directed to the archer. As Adventure Captain, it was his job to keep the peace between party members.
“Friend Cob, what is makin’ you think that we’d do such a sinful deed? Would you be so kind to explain?”
The soft tone seemed to anger Cob more than sooth him.
“Don’t think you can put me off with a bunch of fancy talkin’. Ever’body knows churches keep their gold hidden under loose stones. We seen what you’re up to, Mister Adventurer, Sir.”
Despite the deliberate affront, Roscoe’s tone remained as gentle as before.
“I appreciate your position, so I do. You don’t know us, havin’ just made our acquaintance this very day, so I can see why you might mistake us for a pack of church-robbin’ hobgoblins.”
“So, to set your mind to rest, here’s what we’ll do. You and Tuck and Wat shall be the first to explore what’s under that flagstone. If you find treasure, you keep it, all of it, ‘cause I know you’ll take the honorable course and return it to the Church. But if you find a passageway, then you’ll all be followin’ my orders from that point without any more fuss. Are we agreed?”
Cob looked at his comrades, who offered him no words of encouragement. This was a difficult moment—he was not accustomed to doing his own thinking. Finally, he shrugged and nodded.
“All right … I guess … agreed.”
Roscoe smiled.
“And one more thing—I’d prefer to be called Captain, if you don’t mind.”
Thurmond was greatly relieved that Roscoe had been able to placate their restive hirelings, yet he continued to dislike Cob. Worse still, he knew that sooner or later he would have to reveal the truth about Saint Aphazia’s hand. He should have done so before they left home, but his courage had failed him. It was so embarrassing. And this was certainly not the proper time and place.
Despite its age and ruined state, the flooring of Saint Eurea’s chapel was stubborn. Try as he might, Torgul was unable to pry the big flagstone loose from the mortar that had held it fast for so many years. He worked a heavy prise bar deep into a crack and tried again. No luck. It galled him to have to ask for help.
“Hey—Roscoe—help me with this sodding thing. I need some weight.”
The old Adventurer’s voice rose an octave in mock indignation.
“You wouldn’t be suggestin’ that I’m fat, now would you, my brother? I’ll have you know that my girth has shrunk down considerable—shamefully so. I’m right mortified by how lean I’ve become, so I am.”
In fact, Roscoe had not regained the weight he had lost during their last adventure. His once- magnificent paunch—round as a melon it had been—was now no more than a large roll around his middle. He took a position on the other side of the iron bar and gripped it in both hands. He continued to banter, though his voice became strained as he pushed down with all his might.
“And if you’re sayin’ that I’m fat, I’ll be forced to remind you, friend dwarf, that you are yourself, some might say, a tad wantin’ in the way of height …. There! We got it! Thurmond—it’s comin’. Slip somethin’ under it!”
The flagstone broke loose with a crack. They lifted one corner high enough for Thurmond to brace it up with a chunk of rock. Now they could get their fingers around it and lift it free. Beneath it, a set of spiral stairs led down a narrow brick-lined passage. It was low—even the short-statured archers were forced to duck. Only Torgul was able to stand upright, so he led the way. Moisture dripped from the ceiling, and their boots squished in the soggy mud on the floor.
The Gascars all carried heavy warbows. Thurmond and Sarah both carried shortbows, but even these would be of no use in such small spaces. Thus, they were now slung over their shoulders. Even Thurmond’s broadsword was too long. Torgul slung his long-handled axe and drew his scramasax.
Sarah followed close behind Torgul with the silver hand to guide the way. Then Thurmond and the archers. Roscoe brought up the rear. His great size was typically a huge benefit in a fight, but in a confined place like this, he was at a major disadvantage.
At least they did not have to grope along in the dark. Sarah had learned a new spell, a light spell. When cast upon the adventuring party, it spread over them like a large luminous bubble and moved along with them as they proceeded down the stairway.
The steps ended at a down-sloping tunnel. After forty or fifty yards, they came to a fork in the road—a narrow passage branching off to the right, a wide one to the left. Thurmond watched over Sarah’s shoulder as she held the silver hand by the chain as Asmodeus had directed. It began to spin in a slow circle, as if getting its bearings, then came to rest with the index finger pointing down the left-hand path. Off they went.
They came to other passages on either side, but the finger charm invariably pointed straight ahead. After some minutes, the passage brought them to a small room where larger corridors veered off right and left. The finger swung decisively to the left.
More twisting tunnels and corridors, more forks in the road. The finger was leading them through a complicated maze. Thurmond suddenly realized that he had long since forgotten to note the details of their travel. He would never be able to re-trace his footsteps to the opening. Torgul had an uncanny sense of direction, so maybe he would be able to lead them out. But suppose Torgul got killed?
Then he smelled it—a disgusting, lingering reek that he would never forget, no matter how hard he tried. The hideous stench of troll. He had at one point been compelled to scrape the dung from the floor of troll cages. Their unbelievable foulness had so clung to his body that he had been forced to discard his clothes.
The fetor brought the party to a halt. It was getting stronger as they progressed along the corridor, making them reluctant to continue. The silver hand continued to point insistently in that direction, goading them forward. Just ahead, the passage curved sharply to the right. What could be lurking just round the bend? They gathered silently together and listened. Nothing.
Finally, Torgul spoke.
“I’m goin’ up there for a look-see. Thurmond—it’d be good if you’d come along behind me just in case somethin’ bad jumps out. Sarah—maybe you’d be standin’ by with one of your spells or somethin’.”
Thurmond could tell the dwarf was frightened. This was unusual, for his reckless courage was typically nonpareil. That’s what the stench of troll would do to even the most stalwart warrior.
Now that the corridor was large enough to permit it, Torgul unslung Bloodtroll—his ensorcelled axe—and tip-toed along the wall toward the bend. Thurmond followed close behind. Sarah readied her scroll of fireballs. One quick peek, and the dwarf was coming back, signaling for Thurmond to return to the group.
“There’s a door on the other side. It’s made outta heavy timbers, but it’s all busted up. Like it’s been smashed open from the other side. Didn’t see nuthin’ else. Smell gets worse.”
Thurmond knew he had to say something.
“I know what that smell is—I’ve smelt is before. It’s troll.”
Everyone immediately paused and took a breath at the mention of the word troll. They all knew that they were horrible, brutal, voracious creatures capable of rending and devouring any human unfortunate enough to come within their grasp. At least that is how they were described in the childhood tales that everyone grew up hearing. In fact, none of the group, save Thurmond, had ever laid eyes on a troll.
Trolls were unlike any other living creature. They were warm-blooded and more or less nurtured their young, yet they were perfectly hairless and covered with tiny scales that lent them a distinctly reptilian appearance.
The slightly pointed ears and almond-shaped eyes suggested that trolls might share a common ancestor with elves, but the very suggestion of such a connection would surely have driven an elf to apoplexy. Trolls were too dim of wit to comprehend or care who they were related to.
Trolls possessed an innate ferocity matched only by their ravenous appetite—they were perpetually driven to kill and eat. Their hooked claws, huge incisors, and prodigious strength provided the means for satisfying both of these appetites.
Such was the creature that now lurked somewhere beyond the broken door. Thurmond knew what he had to do.
“Look it—I’ll go up and peek through the door, but if there’s a troll on the other side, I’m gonna come running back. Get ready to fight. It’ll take all of us to kill a troll.”
They took their positions, Roscoe standing in front where his large kite-shaped shield could block the way. Torgul just behind him, the long shaft of his axe permitting him to strike out of either side as opportunity allowed. Sarah stood by with her scroll. The archers hung back, as if unsure of what to do.
Thurmond was only gone a moment. Then he was back and reported to the group.
“I looked through the smashed door. I didn’t see the troll, but there’s scores of small barrels stacked inside. And there’s another smell that’s unmistakable—uisge.”
This was a highly potent distilled beverage obtainable only from the chaotic Keltin tribesmen on the far side of the Mad River. Its manufacture was a guarded secret, and the Keltins would exchange it for nothing less than the finest steel weapons the kingdom of Poitiers had to offer.
Since it was a capital crime to provide arms to such unpredictable neighbors, the smuggling of uisge was the business of the criminal underworld. Roscoe had, in his time, dabbled in this trade. But these days, the enterprise was controlled by the Brethren. To cross this group was to court death in a horrible fashion.