Fatebound Journey

Élrick felt the vibrations from the spinning mechanism at the top of the Dread King’s Castle tower. Whump-whump, whump-whump, whirr-whirr-whirr, the sound reverberated off of rock and palisade nearby. A procession of pointed pillars lined the pathway leading to the stone steps of the castle entrance. Skulls were strewn across the path, as though to deter any visitors from venturing further. But a Hero would not be so easily discouraged.

Bodies of defeated monsters piled next to the steps made for an equally eerie sight. Excellent work, my friends. I can only hope they left no stragglers. I’m not certain I could handle beasts such as these on my own. Élrick’s companions had gone ahead of him to make the castle entry secure. Now, he needed only to catch up to them, and they would each use their key to unlock the door behind which the Dread King lurked. There, they would vanquish him once and for all.

He steeled his nerves and marched forward, trusting that his allies had cleared the path ahead. Looking about, he certainly did not see any enemies in sight. The castle rested upon an enormous chunk of land, suspended high above the earth by dark magic beyond Élrick’s understanding. Many scholars had labored over countless texts to discover the passage sphere that led them to the unholy island. They had arrived in such haste and hubris that they had overlooked a vital element to their plan.

Élrick now recalled that, before leaving home, the great sage had instructed him to seek the ‘Blessing of Samanthis’ before opening that great and terrible door. Unfortunately, the wise-man elucidated no further than that. But Élrick was well accustomed to the graces of the goddess, having been taught her ways since he was a boy and placed his faith in the sage’s words that the ‘Blessing of Samanthis’ would be of great aid in his battle against the Dread King. His friends, however, were less convinced.

Most places in the world no longer recognized the old ways. Élrick was not sure if there were any kingdoms, other than his homeland Gauloria, that still honored the goddess. The lands his associates hailed from certainly were not among them. As such, they were not wholly united on this front and the rest of the party had been reluctant to backtrack, eager to rid the land of darkness. But Élrick wanted to leave nothing to chance. They struck a compromise. He went back to secure the blessing while they continued on to scout out the castle.

The tall portal of the keep looked heavy, but as Élrick gave it a gentle push, it creaked open. The interior was even less welcoming than the road leading to it. He squinted to make out anything in the inky darkness of the entryway. It was lit only by a few candelabra, giving little comfort to those who entered. He suppressed an urge to flee, something he had not contended with since he was a boy.

He stumbled forward until he found himself in the grand central chamber of the keep. Although his vision was still limited, the chandeliers hanging overhead provided more light than the foyer. Painted portraits leaned and lurched, straining off their hinges to follow his every move. Support columns swayed and danced, as if ready to topple onto his path at any moment. A gang of Necro-Slorbles had set up shop near the spiral staircase to the west. It was clear this room had not been secured.

To his left were a grand pair of doors. Next to them sat a steaming cauldron beneath a hanging metal cage. The doors were locked tight, but in the far corner behind the cauldron, two steel levers rested on the floor. Élrick walked over and pulled one. He immediately heard scraping metal behind him. Glancing back, he saw the bottom of the cage had swung open, pouring out a skeleton into the cauldron. Within seconds, the bones began to boil and evaporate before his eyes. A sickening white vapor emanated from the pot.

“If only ye’d gotten here sooner, laddie. We might still be wi’ ye.” The chant sounded eerily like Culainn’s voice, one of Élrick’s friends. A ghost? Had he perished? He could hardly believe it. Culainn, the strongest warrior he knew, had fallen. Could this mean the others had succumbed to defeat as well? He had tarried too long and his companions had paid the price.

Élrick struggled to think, drawing shut an iron gate over his heart. He would have time to mourn his friends later. Drawing his sword, he steadied his resolve and began working on a plan. He was in this keep in alone.

“Haw-haw-haw! All o’ ye said he wouldnae fall fer it! But I ken auld Élrick better than any o’ ye!” Culainn came up from behind and clapped his large hand on his shoulder. Élrick jerked his head back, but relief washed over him, followed by a flash of anger when he saw his companions traipsing up from the darkness. He fought to keep his composure.

Wittfel was shaking his head, the point on his hat bobbing back and forth. “I advised him it was not the time for tomfoolery; but you might imagine how such a conversation went.”

“Indeed.” Élrick fought to keep the bitterness out of his voice as he pushed his half-drawn blade back into its scabbard. He and Culainn had known each other the longest of all their traveling companions. They had grown up in neighboring border kingdoms, meeting as lads and spending their youths romping about the countryside. He knew the fighter’s antics all too well by now. But he thought even Culainn would understand that stakes were high and tensions higher. “However, we must press on,” he said, more firmly. “There shall be time for joviality when this is finished.” He knew Culainn well enough—the bear of a man would not see reason. There was little point in correcting him when there was a job to be done.

Argusa nodded her head. “Of course.” Her soft leather boots made barely a sound as she walked over to the untested lever and pulled it. The locked doors to the hallway snapped open with impressive force. “The path to the basement is clear. There is no need to trifle with the beasts on this floor. We should take the eastern passage to the kitchens. From there, finding the vault door should be a small matter.”

Élrick allowed the others to lead the way, dodging most enemies as they went. The kitchens were a grotesque sight. Purple splotches of foul fluids stained much of the room, remnants of creatures that roamed the castle’s corridors and courtyards. Monster organs lay scattered across the counters. On a center table sat plates piled high with diced tentacles, bowls brimming with Ghoul eyes, and platters filled with fried Imp fingers. Who or what could be eating this? How in the heavens did this fortress sustain itself?

“We encountered what seemed to be the castle’s cook when we found the way to the cellar,” Argusa began. “Afterwards, we returned outside to rest and await your arrival. But Culainn was bent on inspecting the upper floors first.” She clicked her tongue at him.

“Ach, we didnae ken what dangers might dwell up there. ‘Twould be folly tae leave it unchecked afore head down tae meet the Dread King, especially while waitin’ on the Lord Hero ta return from his holy pilgrimage! Haw-haw-haw!” Culainn cleared his throat and spat on the stone floor.

“We’ve discussed this already and agreed that leaving no path unexplored was for the best. We face a foe unlike any other, and it cost naught for me to retrieve the blessing. Unity is our greatest defense; if the goddess is gracious, her protection shall prevail for all who fight for peace in her land, even if we do not all put faith in her existence.” Élrick bristled at his friend’s derision. He knew Culainn always had his back, but sometimes, his callousness could still chafe.

Wittfel smoothed out his robes. “In that matter, I find myself wondering.” He shifted his gaze to the others. “Let us move forward. It does us no good to linger on what has passed. I sense the dark stirrings of magic—the fiend lies ahead.”

Could Wittfel be reconsidering the goddess’s existence? He had once been the most skeptical of the bunch. Élrick dismissed the thought; they could afford no further distractions. “Aye,” he drew his sword and took point. “If you have gone no further than this in my absence, then I shall take the lead here on out.”

“Ye’ve always got that gumption, don’t ye?” Culainn remarked with a grin.

Élrick entered the cellar door. He was struck by the inky blackness of the staircase that led down. “Argusa…a torch?”

“I can assist,” interjected Wittfel. The old wizard muttered a string of unintelligible words, and light swiftly enveloped Élrick.

“You needn’t cast it upon me directly…”

“Now the Lord Hero’s a beacon for all monster-kind ta flock tae.”

“An oversight, perhaps…” Wittfel waved a hand, guiding his light from Élrick to the tip of his blade. “You need only sheathe it to douse the light.”

Élrick felt grateful for the light spell, as it revealed an orange, slimy goo coating the stone brick stairs. A single careless step might make for a quick arrival at the bottom of the cellar.

“Sunburst Slorbles,” Argusa stated.

“Indeed. Fiercer and faster than other slorbles. We mustn’t tarry,” Wittfel replied.

“Aye, but let us not move so swiftly that we all tumble to the bottom,” Élrick said.

He quickened his pace, taking care to not slip on the slime. He assumed the vault door was tucked away in some basement labyrinth. Yet, upon reaching the bottom, they found themselves in front of a grand and ominous door. Along the outer edges were four keyholes and in the center of the door protruded a handle fashioned from horn. The entire frame glowed and pulsed with a preternatural red aura.

“The source of the dark magic. I suppose I need not tell you it lies beyond that door?”

“Aye…” Culainn’s hearty demeanor was gone.

Élrick gripped his sword. “There is no worse time to lose one’s nerve. We have a job to do. Argusa, I believe it is your key that must be inserted first?”

She gave no response but stepped forward while rummaging through her sack. Within moments, she produced the key and placed it in the lock.

“Wittfel is next,” Élrick continued.

The elder stepped forward and did in kind, knowing his duty well. Then Culainn followed suit, without needing a word of prompting. The group then turned to Élrick, waiting for him to place the final key into the lock.

He looked each of them in the eye, glancing from face to face. “Once we open this door, there shall be no further preparation. Wittfel, if you’ve an incantation you need readied, do so now. Argusa, knock your arrow. Culainn...you know your way around both blade and bludgeon. Do what you do best. Let us make this as brief a battle as our bodies will allow. And when we return to Gauloria, we shall do so as heroes, for it will be a kingdom free of fear.”

“Aye,” the three said in unison.

Élrick stepped forward, slid his key into the lock, and turned it. Click. The demonic door was unlocked. The handle slowly started turning on its own.

Sharp pain pierced Élrick’s side, followed by waves of fire that radiated from his ribs and traveled throughout his torso. An arrow. He tried to shout, “Take cover—archers!” but the words that tumbled out of his mouth were weak and labored.

“Haw-haw-haw!” Culainn’s laugh seemed to echo with a haunting presence.

Élrick looked up at his friends, only then realizing he had fallen to one knee. All around him, he saw glowing yellow eyes glaring down at him. He glanced around the room in a panic. There were no bowmen, only his companions. He clutched at his side and felt no arrow, but instead the hilt of a dagger. Culainn’s dagger. He had known exactly how to pierce Élrick’s armor.

“W-why?” He groaned.

“Because I will it!” A booming voice echoed out from behind the huge door before it snapped open, slamming into Élrick, sending him sprawling across the room. He twisted his body, trying not to land on his wound. But the crash sent ripples of torment through him anyway. He looked to the door and saw the horrifying figure of the Dread King, Corruptican, come pounding forth from the vault.

His skin was mostly purple, with dark ridges running along his back. His massive belly, a sickly yellow, seemed so large that Élrick thought it should drag across the floor. Rows of fanged teeth lined the monster’s mouth, and atop its bulbous head were two twisted, spiraling horns. Yet, as Élrick locked eyes with the creature, a shiver ran through him. Something in the way the Dread King moved—the tilt of his head, the glint in his eyes—felt unsettlingly familiar, as if Élrick had seen that motion before.

“I must thank you for freeing me... hero.” He spat the title out as though it tasted vile on his tongue. His rotund, plodding frame seemed incapable of supporting itself. But Élrick knew his magical might alone was capable of destroying entire kingdoms. “Though I know that was your plan all along, I don’t imagine you expected to be grievously wounded so quickly.” The monstrous beast bellowed out a chilling laugh.

Élrick looked at his wound. He was bleeding fast. He did not have a lot of time. “H-how did you…” He struggled against the pain. “What did you do to them?”

The Dread King’s belly began to tremor as he again laughed. “Why, what else does a lord of corruption do but fulfill his nature? The moment they entered the castle, I took root in their hearts and bent their wills to serve my own.” He had exited the vault door, but not yet approached Élrick. The colossal king appeared lethargic and slow to move. Perhaps slaying him was not out of the realm of possibility, after all. If only Élrick’s friends were not lost to him now... and he was not bleeding out, that was.

“And why not...me?”

The Dread King slowly shuffled closer to Élrick. “Why not you? That’s a good question. One that I hope you might answer. I thought you would become yet another warrior in my brood once you crossed the threshold of my castle, but you did not. That was when I sent your former companions to fetch you so that you might free me, before having them do away with you.” The chamber thundered with the echo of his deep laughter.

He glanced at his companions and focused on Wittfel, who stared back. Behind the supernatural glow granted by the Dread King, the old magician’s knowing eyes had reached the conclusion long before Élrick had.

The Blessing of Samanthis… If we had all gone to the shrine together before coming to this castle, this could have been prevented. His body trembling, Élrick pushed himself up onto one knee. “I w-walked into a trap.”

“Aye laddie, that ye did.” A wicked grin stretched across Culainn’s face.

I have but one chance at this. Under his breath, Élrick began reciting a chant. He raised his right hand and with his other, he swiftly pulled the dagger from his side and flung it at the Dread King. It struck the thick hide of the beast, the impact followed by a sickening thunk. While the party was distracted, he put all his strength toward not collapsing as he finished the chant. He ran his hand over the wound, healing the damage. Within seconds, he felt better.

He sprung to his feet and drew his sword. Culainn was already charging toward him, hammer swinging. Argusa was reaching for her bow. The Dread King, unfazed by the dagger, spewed some guttural phrase so quickly that Élrick could not decipher its meaning. A brilliant beam of light shot forth from the belly of the beast, stopping just short of enveloping Élrick. The beam split in two, parting around before rejoining on the other side. Motes of energy flickered and crackled from the beam as it circled him. This continued for several moments, with Élrick sensing it having no discernable effects on him. Whatever the Dread King was doing, it was not working. The Blessing of Samanthis was powerful indeed.

This was his chance. Even now at full strength, Élrick was outnumbered. In a physical fight alone, Culainn would likely best him, even accounting for Élrick’s agility. Wittfel was a much more accomplished magic user than he. And at the moment, Élrick was missing a significant amount of power from his reserves due to the healing spell. On top of that, there was no way he could balance a fight with them both while also dodging Argusa’s missile, especially not in these close quarters.

His gaze darted about the room, searching for an exit. There were two hallways on either side, but he did not know where they led. The stairway up was the only certainty. Unfortunately, it was covered in slorble slime. Running up the stairs was not a good option, and there was no more time for consideration. Élrick broke through the beam and chose the western hallway.

“Follow after him! Now!” He heard the Dread King command his friends.

Élrick bounded down the passage, drawing his sword and holding it out like a torch. Wittfel’s Light spell was still bonded to its steel, allowing it to illuminate the grime-covered maze of corridors before him. The air was thick and musty, laced with the scent of mildew.

He could hear the distant footfalls of Culainn behind him. Which meant that Argusa was closer still. She moved more quietly and swiftly.

Élrick closed one eye and plunged into the labyrinth ahead, his boots splashing in the muck of the tunnel floor. Ahead, he saw the hallway begin to narrow. He turned his body mid-flight to fit through the opening. The craggy stone walls scraped against his armor as he squeezed through the narrowing gap. Hah, let’s see Culainn attempt to fit through such a crevice. But Argusa would have no trouble at all.

The tunnels curved and twisted without reason, each intersection a perilous choice. If he reached a dead end, it would mean his demise. He allowed himself no comfort in the thought of Culainn trapped behind the narrow passage. Instead, he pushed himself harder, running faster than he ever had since he was a lad.

As if in time with his thoughts, a deafening explosion of stone erupted from behind him. The ancient masonry yielded with a resounding crash that echoed through the corridor. Dust and shards of rock shot past Élrick, cutting him and filling the air with a choking haze.

“Argh! Stone bricks cannae stop me, laddie!” Culainn’s taunt rang with glee. “Ye oughtta ken that by now! Haw-haw-haw!”

Élrick did not bother looking back. He kept one shut and just kept running. Culainn had somehow smashed through the stone walls of the hallway. The King’s corruption must grant some kind of otherworldly strength. Heavens preserve us.

An arrow whizzed past his head. No. Two arrows? Had she fired two arrows at once? But she had missed, surprisingly. She would not miss again. He sheathed his sword, dampening the light, and opened the eye he had held shut. The minute or so of darkness helped him adjust to the absence of light, but it was still oppressively dark.

Argusa had unbeatable odds of striking him in the tunnels, but at least she could no longer see. Unless Wittfel was close enough to cast another light spell, that was. Élrick hunched over, dropping his head out of her likely line of sight. He began zig-zagging through the halls, doing all he could to survive even just a minute longer.

His breath came in ragged gasps, his lungs burning. But he pressed onward. When he had almost lost all hope, a sudden draft brushed past him, carrying a faint hint of fresh air. He quickly adjusted course and ducked down the hallway to his right, following the soft breeze. He hoped it was not another trap.

Élrick reached the end of the tunnel, slamming into a wall. It was a dead end. He ran his hands all across the wall searching for a door, a handle, a loose brick, anything! He found nothing. Had the draft been a trick of the mind? No. His boot struck up against a subtle shift in the stones at his feet—a slight misalignment easily missed. He stamped hard on the stone and, with a grating sound, a section of the wall gave way. It revealed a set of stairs that led up and out onto the grassy precipice that the castle stood upon.

He climbed out and saw that he stood behind the castle, looking out at the vast world beneath him. A storm has risen since he had entered the keep. Dark clouds seemed to encircle the island as though to enshroud the fortress with a cloak of shadows. It was hard to see much beyond the cliff’s edge, but he knew what lay below. The sleeping world, totally unaware of the disaster that was unfolding so high above it.

Though the Dread King appeared portly and far from a physical aggressor, his power was said to be unmatched. Once unleashed upon the world, his spreading corruption would surely bring about the fall of civilization. The Goddess’ protection had served Élrick, but it could not extend far enough to shield all of mortalkind.

Élrick turned from the cliff’s edge and headed to the front of the castle. His horse was hitched there. He had to return to it, get back to the Guild or the palace in Gauloria, and formulate a new plan. Losing friends as powerful as his was a major setback. But there were still plenty of able-bodied adventurers the world over, ready to take up arms. The frightening prospect was the knowledge that he had set the Dread King loose upon the world without immediately vanquishing him. How could they have been so foolish to not secure the Blessing together before coming to the castle?

“It ends here,” He glanced over his shoulder. Argusa had a dagger pointed at his neck. He had reached the fresh air and let it placate him. Now he might die for it.

“You do not want this,” he pleaded. “I know you’re still in there, somewhere. And you do not want to do this.”

“I am here,” she struck her arm against her chest. “I have gone nowhere! My mind, my orders, they’ve changed.

“No. You’ve changed. You do not realize it?” Élrick felt despair well up within him. “This is not what we set out to do. Do you wish to live in a world where the Dread King is free to destroy all that we love?”

Argusa was unmoved. “I do not wish for you to claim all the glory, Hero.” Culainn and Wittfel now joined them on the grassy precipice.

Élrick turned to fully face her, choosing to ignore the blade. He was dead if she so chose. “And what of them?” He pointed to Culainn and Wittfel. “Are you three to share in Corruptican’s power equally?”

“An attempt to sew dissension amongst us will not buy you any time, I fear. Let us put this to an end,” Wittfel said, pounding his staff emphatically. “It may be that your goddess’ blessing has protected you thus far. I suspect it is beyond the reach of our lord’s current dark magic. Otherwise, this whole business would be far simpler. As it stands, there is only one way to see it through.”

Culainn lurched forward, waving his hammer about wildly. “Put the knife down, Goose. I aim to ‘andle him meself.”

His words stung. Élrick did not understand how Corruptican’s magic worked, but he hoped there had been no seed of disfavor within Culainn from which this tree of hate had taken root.

Argusa opted to yield and sheathed her blade. Culainn immediately charged forward, hammer reared back. Élrick wasted no time. He broke from the group and started charging toward the cliff’s edge. The Passage Sphere could be used at any point of the Hourveil that encircled and protected Corruptican’s Keep, but his horse was hitched near the front. He could not descend to the earth safely without her, but he had few options left. He drew deep within himself and gathered every bit of magical power he had left.

“Jump if ye wish, laddie! We’ll all ken it was me who did ye in! Haw-haw-haw!” Culainn was still coming for him, his face contorted into a snarl. The muscles in his chest and arms looked fit to burst and his boots thundered against the ground as he stampeded forth, fierce as a Minotaur.

Élrick pulled the Passage Sphere from his pack and pressed it into the glowing wall of the Hourveil. I’ll come back. That’s a promise. He leapt off.

As he began to fall, he kept drawing from the well of magic power he had stored within until he thought he might faint. As he fell, wind whipped at his face and the cold rain stung his cheeks. Lightning jumped between the surrounding clouds, threatening to strike him down from the sky. Let us hope the Goddess has not stopped watching over me yet.

He began chanting a spell, though not even he could hear himself speak. A dazzling light formed in front of his hands, cutting through the fog. With a final, whispered word, it was done. A tall platform of shimmering iron materialized below him, bonding to the gloves of his armor.

He laid his body against the wall and tried to ride it down, using it to slow his descent, however minute it might be. Even with his strength, he found it impossible to direct the thick sheet of iron in chaotic winds. Even if he knew how to direct the wall via magic, his reserves were depleted.

Rain lashed at his face as he struggled to maintain control over the speeding platform. His arms grew tired and his sides ached. He had pushed himself to his limits. And now he was so very tired. The world around him seemed to grow darker. He laid his face down on the cool metal to rest and closed his eyes.

***

The wind howled upon the mountaintop as Tabitha took in the view. The crisp breeze swept past her, carrying with it the scent of pine needles and edelweiss flowers. The world below sprawled out before her in a majestic blend of colors and textures. The river that flowed from the mountain winded across an emerald meadow and snaked out of sight around the mountain range. In the distance, she saw rolling hills dotted with clusters of ancient oak trees. Farther ahead, the hills smoothed out and transitioned into a dense forest that stretched out until it met the walls of civilization. That would be Prosperest, the largest town near Spyndelcrash Peak, Tabitha’s home.

She was curious about the lives of those down below. She spied some far-off houses and dreamt of waking up there every morning, working in the fields there during the day, and reading indoors there by lantern light before falling asleep at night. She did this often with every tiny puff of chimney smoke she saw through squinted eyes. She fancied inspecting each nook and cranny of all the towns and cities she could see from atop the mountain. Her mountain.

Though many from the village often made the climb here, she was the most adept at it. She had scaled these cliffs and traveled the mountain’s caves so many times that she could do it in her sleep. For that alone, she considered the peaks to be hers.

At the world’s edge, before the Penumbrine Ocean disappeared into dark blue misty fog, and grassy plains turned to beaches, were thick jungles that Tabitha could barely see. She knew about much of the world from studying the maps her father had brought home from his days in the war. She had spent countless nights poring over those charts, tracing routes she might one day take to explore the vast world herself.

Shaking off her reverie, she searched the rocky soil until she found another Menderose flower. She snapped off a few leaves, taking care not to prick her fingers, and stuffed them in her leather pouch. It was rather full, forcing her to fight with the clasp to snap it shut. She would not be bringing any more back. But she likely had enough now to last a fortnight.

Time to head back. She looked out across the horizon one last time, then made her way down an incline. She shimmied along a narrow pathway to the cavern entrance and then proceeded inside. She moved swiftly along, keeping her right arm just within reach of the slick cavern wall. There was no light in this part of the cave, but she knew that a few feet to her left, the path she was running along dropped off into a pit. She wanted to ensure she was as far from the left as she could be.

As she skulked along, she could hear the growls and scuffs of monsters below. Not letting them get to her, she continued creeping along the upper ledge. She stopped fearing the cave monsters long ago. They were dimwitted and never heard her when she sneaked by them. Tabitha never understood why her father was afraid she would get hurt in these tunnels.

She had been through these tunnels since she was a girl, but for the past few moons, she had taken the cavern paths more often. They were the fastest way to the mountaintop, where the Menderose flower grew. Its properties as a restorative herb were well known in Spyndelcrash Ridge, but the plant never cultivated well anywhere but the highest peaks. Tabitha had volunteered to make the climb up and gather the healing leaves, and most everyone in the village agreed she was the best fit for the task, despite her mother’s objections.

The village had whispered of the Starborn Knight for centuries, a being said to descend from the heavens just before a time of great upheaval. When a stranger crashed to the earth near her home around a month or so ago, broken and half-dead, many believed the prophecy had finally come to pass and that the Starborn Knight had arrived.

The sandy-haired knight was found in a crater, near the village, at the foot of a slope. He was badly beaten from his fall and was encased in a suit of dented, blue armor that was covered in scorch marks. Some men from town carried him, armor and all, back to town and set him up in a room at the inn. He should not have survived the night, but with care and all the Menderose leaves the village had on hand, he was still breathing. He had not awoken since the crash, though.

Many in the village were conflicted about what to do. The prophecy spoke of great upheaval. So, out of fear, some wanted to cast him out. But others claimed that doing so would do no good to stop whatever events had already been set into motion. Others claimed this man had nothing to do with the prophecy, and others still claimed the prophecy never meant anything to begin with.

Tabitha was not sure what to think. She did know that she, of all people in the village, was chosen to fetch the healing herbs and that a man’s well-being depended on her. The sooner he recovered, the sooner they could learn what was going on.

As Tabitha exited the cavern's mouth, she looked out to survey the valley below. The sun shone through the clouds and scintillated on the river that flowed down from the mountaintop. She checked the sun’s position. It was just past noon. She would have to hurry if she wanted to get the herbs to the inn and still make it home in time for dinner. She grabbed hold of the rope she had affixed earlier next to the cave entrance and used it to repel down the cliff face.

About halfway down, she felt the rope start to give. Was someone untying it? She glanced up to see that the cords of the rope had frayed and were tearing. The rope was about to rip in two, with her still holding onto it. She repelled faster and faster, trying to race the ripping rope to the bottom. She was fortunately far enough down so that, when the rope snapped, it was but a short fall to the bottom. However, the scattered rocks and broken stones did not make for much of a cushioned fall.

She inspected the rips in her trousers. “Ugh, these pants are all ruined now,” Tabitha lamented. She had become so accustomed to scaling and traversing the mountain and caves efficiently that she had always managed to keep the dirtying of garments to a minimum. Thankfully, her mother could fix her pants in short order. Most of the folk in Spyndelcrash Village were accomplished clothiers who exported their products down to the foothills. And Tabitha’s mother was the best seamstress in town.

She picked herself up and dusted off her clothes. They were filthy. But there was little point in admonishing herself here. She would replace the rope later. It was getting late, and she still had the herbs to deliver. She checked the pouch to make sure it was secure and then set off on the dusty road that led to the river valley and the entrance to the village.

She reached the river’s edge and instead of walking the half-mile south to the bridge, she decided to take the shortcut across the stones. It was such a waste of time to take the bridge when she could see the village entrance from the river’s edge now. As she bounded across the stepping stones that dotted the coursing stream of water, Tabitha could already see the Inn. A sizable crowd had formed outside its doors. What was going on? Tabitha quickened her pace and arrived safely on the other side. From there, it was a short jaunt to the tall wooden arch that marked the village entrance.

When she arrived, the large crowd was all abuzz with chatter. She could not understand what anyone was saying, so she slipped through the throng of people and pushed open the Inn door. Looking to the innkeep, she swept the hair from her eyes. “What’s happened?”

“The Starborn Knight. He is awake.”