Part 3 (1/2)

The group of us set out on our journey, and throughout our first encounters, we had a fairly easy time of it. We would encounter random threats such as giants or small dragons. At those times, we would develop strategies and the roll of dice would tell us how successful we were. We were consistently able to navigate our way past the a.s.sorted dangers, and even I was finding some degree of amus.e.m.e.nt in the entire process. Having encountered my share of questrelated horrors--an impressive accomplishment considering my near obsessive aversion to quests--there was definitely some entertainment in chancing upon threats to life and limb without any of our lives or limbs actually being jeopardized.

Still...

Whenever those dice came down, I felt... I didn't know what. Worried. Jumpy. A sensation that we were fish within a net and we didn't even realize it, because the net hadn't been drawn closed yet.

The others didn't notice or care. They became more boisterous, more adventurous as matters progressed. And over it all, Ronnell sat there with a wide grin, watching hawkishly as we rolled the dice one at a time to determine our fates.

We had navigated our way through an a.s.sortment of hazards and now stood just within the confines of the Foreboding Mountains themselves. ”I think maybe we should leave,” I suggested. Naturally no one paid me any heed.

”You are faced with two branching forks,” Ronnell intoned, a gleam in his eye. He was leaning forward, wide-shouldered, hunched, looking like a gargoyle or perhaps a predatory bird about to pounce.

”Both are illuminated by flickering torches. There is an inscription on the wall just outside the left path.” ”I read it,” said Farfell.

The Mousser thumped him on the chest. ”Your character's a barbarian, remember? He can't read.”

”Sorry,” muttered Farfell.

”I read it,” said the Doubter.

”It's written in runic,” Ronnell informed us, and then he lowered his voice and said, ”It says, 'Do Not Even Think for a Moment About Going This Way or You Will Die.'”

”That's the way we go then,” said the Mousser.

I turned and gaped at him.”It says not to! It says we shouldn't even think about it!”

”Obviously,” the Mousser told me with great satisfaction, ”they're trying to throw us off the scent.”

”That's one interpretation. The other is that someone took the time to warn us that we'll die if we go that way. It seems to me d.a.m.ned rude to ignore it if a person went to that much trouble.”

”Apropos,” Farfell said chidingly, ”it's just a game. What's the worst that can happen?”

”Every time I've asked myself that, I invariably find out. And it's usually worse than I could have imagined.”

”Nonsense.” He looked with certainty at Ronnell and said, ”We enter the left branch. We are not put off by the sign.”

”Who is in the lead?” Ronnell asked politely.

Farfell hesitated, clearly not expecting the question. It was Doubting Tomas who spoke up, far more into the game than I would have credited. ”I will take the lead, since I will be able to read any signs that present themselves.”

Suddenly I heard a distant ripple of thunder, and looked around nervously. The s.h.i.+p was beginning to rock a bit more than before. I was more grateful than ever for the medication that Ronnell had provided me. But that grat.i.tude and distant sense of relief was overwhelmed by an even greater sense of foreboding.

It has been said by some that I have a bit of magic in my blood. No weaver am I, certainly, but I can intuit when something is up, magic-wise. I was getting that sense now. That the impending storm stemmed from more than mere weather, or even from an intemperate G.o.d who felt like punis.h.i.+ng a sailing vessel for no reason other than that it was there.

The others didn't seem to care. If there was anything going on, it clearly didn't register on them.

”The cleric takes the lead,” intoned Ronnell.

”Wait,” I said. Ronnell turned and fixed me with a dark-eyed stare and repeated, ”The cleric takes the lead.” Before I could interrupt again, he continued, ”Ye proceed down the hallway. There is a thick mist in the air. Torches continue to flicker on either side. Just ahead of ye, there is a large door made of solid stone.”

”Does it have a lock?” inquired the Mousser.

”Aye. Inset into the door. But there is no sign of a key.”

”Not a problem,” the Mousser said with a confident grin. ”The thief comes forward and produces his lockpicks. He proceeds to work on the lock.”

”The torches grow brighter,” said Ronnell.

I could see it so clearly in my mind, the four of us in this scenario, so vividly that it was as if I was standing right there. And when the torches went higher still, I said, ”We're leaving.”

”The h.e.l.l we are!” said an annoyed Farfell.

”We've got to get out of here. This thing stinks of a trap.”

”I'm still working on the lock,” said the Mousser.

”Roll the dice,” Ronnell told him. ”A roll over eight means the door unlocks.”

The dice glittered, and the thunder sounded nearer. I could hear the increasing waves lapping at the side of the s.h.i.+p.

”Don't touch them,” I warned the Mousser.

The Mousser looked at me as if I were insane. His expression was filled with disdain. His hair was filled with gel. ”G.o.ds, you really are quite the coward, aren't you,” he said as he picked up the dice, shook them in his hand, and then dropped them.

A four and a two stared up at us.

”Bad luck,” smiled Ronnell, and lightning flashed, illuminating the room through the solitary porthole.

”The torches respond to the attempted intrusion.”

”They what?” asked the Mousser.

And then he ignited.

His hair went up and he let out a scream like the d.a.m.ned, leaping to his feet, batting his hands furiously at his head, howling for Farfell to help him. The alarmed barbarian upended his drink on the Mousser's head. It made no difference. The flames were spreading, and his entire head was engulfed.

The smell was horrific, the screams deafening. Tomas sat there, disbelieving. One had to admire his consistency. Ronnell didn't budge from his place.

Desperately, Farfell yanked off his cloak and threw it over the Mousser's head in an attempt tosmother the flame. No good. As if the flame didn't need air to survive--as if it was feeding off some completely difference source--it engulfed the entirety of the Mousser and the cloak as well. The screams had ceased, probably because his vocal cords had melted, but there was still violent shaking and twitching as the Mousser fell to the floor.

And suddenly an aura of glowing light lifted from the Mousser. It seemed to have form and substance, and yet was without either. It pulled free from the Mousser, mercifully it seemed, for that finally caused his body to cease its trembling. Then the pure, unsullied essence leaped through the air and into Ronnell.

His eyes glowed with an inner light, and he licked his lips as if savoring some great delicacy as the aura suffused his very being. Within moments it faded, and Ronnell looked more vibrant, more powerful than he had before.

By this point even the densest of us knew that we were dealing with something truly sorcerous, but there was nothing we could do. For a moment I was terrified that the flames were going to spread to the floor, to the walls. That within seconds the entirety of the s.h.i.+p would be engulfed. Instead the flames appeared to consume themselves, and in seconds, they were gone. What was left was a smoldering pile of cooked meat that didn't look vaguely human, adorned with a few tattered pieces of cloth that had somehow managed to avoid being scorched. The floor all around was blackened, and thick smoke hung in the air, along with a stench that would have made me gag if it weren't for the anti-nausea elixir.

”You right b.a.s.t.a.r.d!”howled Farfell, and he didn't have a sword, but he didn't need one. He bore a dagger that was the size of my forearm, and he yanked it from his belt in preparation for leaping at Ronnell.

Ronnell remained where he was, imperturbable. ”Sit down, barbarian,” he said.

”I'll carve you up for--!”