It was noon on the twenty-seventh day of Lucrios, 2993 years after the Compact of Ennius, and the springtime sun was warm on the backs of the four dusty travelers as they converged, one by one, at the terminus of the old Archontean road. Each had set out from the nearby town of Gosterwick sometime that morning. Some dragged their feet, riddled with uncharacteristic anxieties; others made haste, driven by some indescribable urge that seemed to tug at their minds, coaxing them ever forward. Those first minutes after their meeting, few words were exchanged between the adventurers, as each was quietly enraptured by the sight that loomed before them.
The road from Gosterwick had taken them into the heart of Burdock’s Valley, and just ahead, dominating their entire field of view, was the Long Fall. It was aptly, if bluntly named: it was a huge, fifteen-hundred-foot waterfall which arced down the massive cliff face that towered high above them, its scale almost baffling to comprehend. Though the companions stood well away from the large basin of water at the base of the waterfall, even from that distance the noise was near-deafening, and any words they wished to exchange needed to be shouted. Yet even grander still, and far more imposing, were two colossal statues carved out of the rock on the eastern side of the falls. On the left was a kneeling swordswoman, one hand outstretched before her, her palm upturned. On the right, a robed sorcerer, tall and mysterious. Both reached well over a thousand feet in height. As the water tumbled down, the spray drenched the statue of the swordswoman, and the water ran down her helmed face. Even at this distance, the travelers were struck by the sight: the statue appeared to be weeping. Together, the pair were worn but mighty, their figures as vast as they were ominous.
As the travelers stood at the end of the road, their packs heavy with supplies and their feet sore from the long walk from town, each took a moment to collect their thoughts. Their minds swarmed with the rumors they had gathered during their travels. Some, surely, were drivel, but others carried that unmistakable tinge of truth. As the four looked on, each knew that somewhere atop that fifteen-hundred-foot cliff was the reason they had walked this long, arduous road.
Frater Avaricios of Epirenus had come from the south of the main continent of Archontos, and his sun-warmed complexion and priestly vestments complimented his easy smile. Something of a glint of mischief shone in his eyes as he greeted his new companions, and he intoned blessings of his god Lysseon upon each of them in his florid accent. Gorend Blackhood stood beside the cleric, his expression unreadable. The stocky dwarf had drawn more than one curious eye on his adventures through the lands of men; as a clanless dwarf, he carried the name Blackhood like a hex, and his face was naked of its customary beard. A low growth of stubble had come in on his jaw, and he scratched it idly as his wary eyes roamed the surroundings. Osric brought up the rear and he leaned on his staff as he took in the sights before them. His black beard and long hair framed a face both canny and good humored, and his flowing garments of many colors marked him as a wandering mage. Though some might smirkingly refer to someone of his ilk as a mere hedge wizard, he was without a doubt a man of strange and arcane powers, and an aura of mysticism swirled about him. The last of the companions sat on a stone a few paces aside from the rest. He introduced himself with a grunt as Vargr, and by his fair hair and beard, they knew him to be a Wiskin man from the northern island chain of Borealios. His arms showed sinewy muscle as he stretched languorously and began rummaging through his pack, muttering something to himself about rope as he sized up the looming cliff face.
All took wary note of the weather-beaten switchback path that zigzagged up the cliff between the huge colossi, and each also could plainly see the many sections of the ramp that had worn perilously smooth with age and erosion, and the sections that were nearest to the falls looked worryingly slick from exposure to centuries of constant spray from the downpour. It would be a dangerous climb if they were to make it to the plateau.
Though each man carried with him the quiet burden of a life left behind, and each, too, bore in their minds a dream of treasure and glory, all now were faced with the monumental task that now lay before them. The looming indomitability of the hostile cliff, it seemed, was something of a symbol of their trials to come: an insurmountable force, an omen of senseless striving; their futures uncertain, the dangers palpable.
The pasts they left behind seemed to diminish as they contemplated the falls. Whatever reason drove them here mattered little now, faced as they were with the promise of a golden future, festooned with glory and riches; riches, or brutal, violent death—for the tales of those that came before were many, and the alehouses of Gosterwick were lousy with scarred adventurers and fortune-seekers, those hopeful few who had ventured forth with their parties only to return alone, beaten and bloodied, bruised and bowed, humbled by their trials and overflowing with tales of vicious monsters that dwelt in the dark places; those dim recesses down in the haunted deep.
All who came to this place knew well that at the top of this cliff lay the once-glorious jewel in the crown of the Archontean empire’s imperialist colonies; the very symbol of Archontean conquest on this far-flung continent of Irthuin. The ruined, ancient city upon the plateau was named for the two great Archontean heroes that were its founders those long centuries ago: the city of Arden Vul.
The footing was slick and the humidity was intense from the pummeling spray from the falls as it misted the air around the party. And through that mist, the two statues known as the Colossal Defenders gazed down impassively: the kneeling warrior, the mighty Archontean heroine Arden, and her traveling companion and partner, the sorcerer Vul in his hooded cape. They watched over the valley, passing their judgment upon any who would attempt to pass between them and climb to that ancient city that carried their names.
It was Vargr the Wiskin who pointed out the set of stairs carved into the cliff, off to the western side of the waterfall. These stairs were in an advanced state of ruin, and many sections had broken and fallen away completely, leaving huge gaps in the structure. They rose only halfway up the face of the cliff before leading to a grand marble-lined entrance. It seemed it was some kind of side door that led deep into the cliff itself. Perhaps it could be a viable entrance into the caverns beneath Arden Vul, but in order to reach it they would need to find a way across the fast-flowing river that barred their passage. Avaricios, Osric and Vargr contemplated the two means of ascent for a moment before they heard a gruff voice shouting at them, barely audible over the roar of the falls. It seemed the dwarf had spotted something.
Off to the side of the road some fifty paces away Gorend was plodding over to an abandoned watchtower of Archontean make. It was in extremely poor repair, and it appeared that all of the upper levels had collapsed inward and spilled over into the surrounding area, and heavy chunks of masonry lay in the tall grasses that had overgrown the ruin. The beardless dwarf was waving the men over and examining a broken doorway into the tower. As the three moved over to join them, Osric looked once more to the top of the plateau, and the sun which was already half way through its arc. If they were to make it to the summit before dark, he thought, time was not on their side.
As they came closer it was apparent the structure was many centuries old, and whatever of the bottom floor that remained intact was roughly fifty feet square. Gorend was studying the stone and seemed to be looking critically at the fine masonry of the old Archontean style. All could see that, through the slats in the broken wooden door, the interior of the tower was dark. No signs of traffic, no outwards signs of any habitation at all. Vargr scanned the muddy ground and Gorend seemed to follow his gaze, and in some sort of unspoken agreement the Wiskin and the dwarf set off together, their boots slipping a little in the muddy, spray-slicked terrain, walking the perimeter of the tower as they searched for tracks. Avaricios and Osric exchanged a perplexed look and the cleric stepped forward and pushed open the door, shaking his head at his paranoid companions.
This was the only approach to Arden Vul from the south. If anyone was traveling this way—and each of the companions had heard numerous stories from adventurers who supposedly had—wouldn’t this be an obvious place to rest or set up camp?
Avaricious edged the door open and peered inside. The door hung loosely on its nearly-collapsed hinges, and surely would have made a racket if the sound of the waterfall hadn’t drowned out all other noise. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom within, he saw that indeed the first floor of the tower appeared partially intact, though sections of the ceiling had fallen in, spilling debris from the ruined upper floors. The floor was littered with rubble, stone, and fallen timbers, and the footing would need to be navigated carefully. The rubble had collapsed in a way that seemed to seal in this room, so very little outside light leaked in, and the sound of the falls was strangely, alluringly muted. The room, too, seemed surprisingly dry. The cleric reached into his pack and withdrew a torch, and as it guttered and flared into life the darkness was thrown into fiery relief, the shadows of the ruin dancing in the amber glow.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Osric stepped into the tower beside him, running his hand along the dry stone walls and gazing around. “No sign of any camp. No supplies. No remnants of a fire pit even. There’s nothing here.”
“No bodies either,” Avaricios added wryly, holding the torch a little higher. “That’s always a good sign.”
The two men both felt it, though neither spoke it aloud: there was an undeniably oppressive atmosphere within the tower. Both brushed it off, reasoning that the sudden transition from the noise and spray of the falls outside to the dry silence the tower simply took a little getting used to.
Avaricios puffed out some air and looked at Osric. “Well, I’m going to have a look and see if they’ve got any wine.” With that, they began to pick their way into the room, starting to give it a more thorough search. Osric made his way over to what remained of the hearth, prodding with his staff as he went, unsure exactly what it was they were searching for here. Both men were acutely aware of the seemingly amplified sound of every footstep, every bit of crushed or shifting stone and woodwork, every movement made eerily loud in the silence. Both started when Gorend and Vargr came in through the open door.
“Anything?” asked Avaricios, speaking over his shoulder as he poked through an overturned cabinet.
“Nothing. No sign of any tracks but our own,” said the dwarf as he peered around the room.
“The spray of the falls is enough to wash out prints,” Vargr growled in his Wiskin accent. “By the time we made a full lap, even our own were partially obscured. We must remain cautious, lest we draw unwanted attention.”
“Agreed,” Gorend returned, and the two newcomers joined the search, overturning rubble, wincing at the noise. It seemed to all that a cold draught had begun to seep into the room.
Osric broke the silence. “What have you all heard of the ruins of Arden Vul? Perhaps if our knowledge is pooled we might be better equipped to face what lies ahead. Or above, as the case may be,” he added.
Avaricios picked up a wine bottle, blew off the dust and saw that it was empty. He set it carefully back where he found it, then stood up straight, stretching his sore back. “I have heard there is an inn up on the plateau, somewhere on the northern outskirts of the ruins. The Sign of the Broken Head, they call it. I was told to ask for the proprietor, Kronos Kettle-Belly, who should have beds, warm food and drink for us.”
“Good,” said Gorend. “As much as we’re all here to try our luck in the ruins, there’s little sense in it if there’s nowhere to bring it back to. After that climb,” the dwarf added, glancing in the direction of the long sloping switchbacks, “I’ll definitely need a pick-me-up.”
“Afraid of heights?” Vargr grinned. “Don’t worry yourself, my friend. I am an experienced climber, and I have strong rope and sturdy pitons. You will be in good hands!” He barked a laugh, causing the other three to wince at the sudden sound. The Wiskin tossed aside a moth-eaten pouch he’d been searching and dusted his hands. “The sooner we get to the top, the sooner we can search for a way down into the Halls below. That is where the true treasure lies.”
“And how do you propose we do that? Surely any of the obvious entrances will have been picked clean by earlier fortune-seekers.” Avaricios sighed, flipping open another empty cabinet.
“I know of an entrance,” said Osric. Each head turned towards him. “I’ve heard much in my travels. An entrance, it is said, is located within the pyramid of Thoth; one of the few remaining intact structures in the ruined city.”
“Thoth,” Gorend mumbled, scritching his beard stubble. He seemed to be examining the construction of the edifice, seeing something with his dwarven senses the humans could not. “I’ve heard that name. A half-elf back in Gosterwick was telling me there are multiple temples of his below the ruins.”
“Ah, yes,” said Avaricios. “Thoth is one of the twelve old gods. Worship of him is very much proscribed in Archontos. But it was not always so—once, he was revered. A god of knowledge, magic and secrecy.” The cleric had given up the search at this point and swigged from his own wineskin. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before continuing. “His worship is proscribed, but cults of his followers remain. Scholars and knowledge-seekers mostly, I’m sure. But there is another cult that still exists in the Halls.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “The cult of Set.”
“Set!” Osric hissed. “I know this name too. Legends say that his followers bear red armor, and his symbol is a hound-like creature with square ears called the Set Animal.” He shook his head wonderingly. “The dangers of this place seem to multiply by the hour. I overheard a group of adventurers mention that the precincts of the Ibis god, Thoth, are littered with statues with eyes filled with brilliant gemstones. But if you try to remove the eyes...” Osric looked pointedly at Vargr who was picking his teeth. “The statues animate and wreak their bloody vengeance upon the thief who wronged them.”
Vargr barked another laugh at that. “A mere cautionary tale, and foolish one at that. Spoken at a loud enough volume that any gullible ears listening in might be frightened off of easy loot, I’d wager.” Osric grunted irritably and turned back to the search. He felt sure there would be something in the gutted hearth, but there were no signs of fire. No wood, no ashes even.
Vargr continued. “As long as we’re exchanging hearsay, I heard the ruins attract priests and wizards as dung attracts flies.” Osric and Avaricios chuckled at that, but the Wiskin pressed on. “It’s true. There were whispers in the streets of Gosterwick that a crazed sorcerer named Khan stalks the second level of the dungeons, aided by an army of ghouls.” His smile was impish, trying unsuccessfully to get a rise out of the two other men, but Gorend rankled visibly at the mention of ghouls.
“Bah!” the dwarf said. “What does an ignorant Wiskin know of the ancient ways of this continent?”
Vargr leaned forward. “This ignorant Wiskin hears much. He knows that Thoth was important to the ancient Empire. He knows the Thothian priesthood was obsessed with light, since Thoth represented the light of knowledge that erased the darkness of ignorance. Not that you’d know anything about that, dwarf.”
Gorend cracked a smile at last and Avaricios laughed heartily, his cheeks a little rosy from the wine. The cleric ambled over to the Wiskin and handed him the wineskin, which Vargr accepted graciously before taking a healthy swallow.
“I’ll give you that, Vargr. I am no expert in the old religions of Man, but I too hear rumors.” Gorend appeared to be looking at the floor, frowning in concentration as he spoke. “I plied an adventurer who had just returned from the halls with a few mugs of mead, and once his tongue was loosened I got him talking about his party’s delve. It seems that a society of trolls lives in the depths, and they run a market somewhere deep in the Halls.”
“A troll market? I have never heard of such a thing. Perhaps you, too, were deep in your cups,” Avaricios chided.
Gorend looked at him darkly. “I don’t drink.”
The priest shrugged. “More for us then, I suppose.” He handed the wineskin to Osric and sat on a section of masonry. Osric raised the wineskin in thanks and took a drink. “Well said. I must say, I think you might be swaying me, priest. This Lysseon fellow has his merits.”
“Indeed he does, my friend! Life is meant to be lived, isn’t it? Why should the faithful be forced to live any less?”
“Aye!” said Osric. “I will drink to that!”
As the mage drank, he noticed that Gorend seemed to be struggling to shift aside a particularly heavy beam. He turned back to Avaricios. “Lysseon, it is well known, is one of those rare patrons that fears not the pleasures of the world. But how is it that a priest such as yourself comes to join a party seeking to loot ancient dungeons?”
“Joy brings us closer to our gods, does it not? And wealth brings you closer to joy, no? So it would be only natural and righteous for me to seek my fortune with you.” The men’s laughter was cut short by a loud crash as Gorend at last shifted the beam aside. As the tower settled back into silence, he looked up at the three open-mouthed men watching him. He smiled at them, then raised a single finger and pointed at the spot in the ground he had just cleared out.
“Look: I’ve found a trap door.”