“What was that about?” Bartle said to his wife as Santar was heaping the soil back over Oba’s grave.
“Runecasters of old love speaking in riddles, dear.”
“Of course they do. Why wouldn't they? I can't wait to shower,” Bartle clapped his hands against his pants, small poofs of dried dirt making tiny, slowly settling clouds around him.
“I am sure it will make sense when we get there,” Morrigan said as she hooked her arm into his.
“Hole is full!” Santar roared as he shook, clumps of dirt scattering around him.
“Hopefully the others were more successful than we were.”
“Agreed.”
The three stopped over at the nearest temple to Chaldia to inform them of the bone golem remains, then headed deeper into the city. The lights were still off at the Shipwright residence when they arrived.
“We here first,” Santar said.
Bartle held the door for Morrigan and Santar to enter, “I imagine whatever they went to do took more time than our task. Especially with you helping us.” Santar happily patted Bartle's shoulder, nearly knocking down.
“Let us get cleaned up, the time is nearly upon us.”
Bartle and Morrigan had already finished cleaning up and Santar was soaking in the large tub upstairs when Syler and company trudged into the house. Sadness was etched across all but Twigly's bloodied face.
Bartle noticed them first and placed a hand to his wife's. “Are you okay?”
Morrigan gasped and shot to her feet, looking over their injuries.
“No,” Syler muttered as he waved her away. “But we did get the nullstone.”
“And you're all more or less unscathed,” Bartle said as he moved to be centered around them, held his medallion and the Life rune flared brightly, warm healing magic washing over them. Their visible wounds began closing, leaving only faint lines. He sat down to catch his breath.
“Thanks,” Syler said as he rolled his shoulders. “Were you successful?”
“Yes. We have information from Oba,” Morrigan pulled a sheaf of parchment from her dress and handed it to Syler.
Syler read aloud:
Beneath the plantation, where three secrets lie,
The basement is trapped beneath one lock and key.
Ablaze with the light, where four echoes sigh,
Dual perilous puzzles for those daring to see.
Beware the floor where false steps tread,
One must hold the trigger where pitfalls are spread.
To navigate this deadly snare,
Seek the eyes that keenly stare.
A maze of magic, elusive and sly
Veiling the path with a deceitful sky.
To pierce the ruse and avoid despair
Bring a mind astute with perceptive flair.
A room filled with flames, dangerous and wild,
Guards the passage, where truth is reviled.
To soothe the blaze and clear the space
A painful truth you thus must face.
The final step, prismatic barrier
To conquer locked secrets, silent and grand.
Allows no flesh, be it two-legs or terrier,
To breach the vault without proper command.
“Riddles, why is it always riddles?” Destin said, shaking his head as Syler tossed the paper onto the table.
Winny answered, “Oba was a runecaster, and a strange one at that, if history be truth. She enjoyed finding ways to avoid telling folks anything directly.”
Syler nodded. “The last part is simple enough. That's why we got the nullstone.”
“The rest is a bit vague without being there to see what it may mean,” Winny said, looking over Morrigan's beautiful handwriting as she memorized the riddle.
Syler rubbed the stubble on his chin in thought before speaking, “I think we have everything we need.”
“And everyone,” Bartle said.
“Agreed. While we're all here, we should go over the plan.”
Morrigan stood again, “I'll make us all some food.”
Santar descended the staircase with a towel wrapped around his head as the smells of baking bread and roasting meat filled the Shipwright home. Syler and company laid out the final plan.
“The only person I need to kill is Maxwell Lawson, and I'd like to avoid any collateral deaths if possible.”
“His father will not let this happen without a fight,” Syler motioned to Santar, “That's where you come in, big guy. You're the distraction for Raynard. He's stronger than most, and may embibe potions to further increase his power.”
“Not stronger than me!” Santar flexed his four arms and bellowed with laughter.
“Somewhere in the sub-basement is an artifact I must retrieve for the Archdruid. The Eldergrove Crown.”
Morrigan's gasp was involuntary, “They have the Crown?” Syler nodded. “That explains so much.”
“If someone finds the crown before me, get it out of the basement to the Archdruid as quickly as possible.” Nods all around. Morrigan described its appearance for them all.
He focused on Destin and Winny, “We are going nonlethal unless you absolutely must. The Lawson's will have hired mercenaries from many groups and I don't know if any of the guards have writs.”
“We will have the outer guards taken care of anyway, if all goes according to plan,” Twigly said as he withdrew and held aloft the wooden clock.
“How many are coming?” Morrigan asked, understanding the clock's use.
“Enough to balance the scales.”
She nodded.
“The druids will distract the outer guards, maybe even pulling some from inside. Then our group enters.”
“And what's after that?”
“Not knowing the fullness of what's there makes complete planning impossible, so I figured we'd wing it once we get in.”
Winny frowned, “I don't like having no plan.”
“I know. Me neither. But knowing the riddle should help us once we get there, and with the guard layout,” he placed Admon's hand drawn map on the table, “we should be able to coordinate accordingly.”
“Fine.” She didn't look fine.
A look of sadness spread over Syler's face, his wan smile looking back in memory, “Our trainer told us over and again that no plan is ever comprehensive and-”
“Never survives its execution unchanged,” Destin finished.
“Exactly. It will be best to do this at night, so everyone rest up. Morrigan, can you send word that it's going to happen tonight?”
“Of course.”
“Twigly, how much time do you need for the ritual?”
“Three minutes, and 70 white draka.”
“Great. No problem. We meet at the outskirts of Longbottom Plantation at dusk.”
“I have plenty of space for any who wish to rest here,” Bartle said.
Syler, Winny, Destin and Twigly decided to stay. Santar left for his home near the arena.
Twigly stood on a slab of stone Morrigan moved up to one of the empty rooms, and was about to phase into his resting statue form when a gentle knock pulled his focus. “Come in.”
Syler stepped in and sat on the bed next to the slab. “Before we do this, I have a question.”
“Sure.”
“How did you come to understand the Shadow rune? I get the Nature and Hunting ones, but not many choose to learn the Shadow rune.”
Twigly smiled, “I was not always a druid, just as you were not always an Agent.”
“Before I was an Agent, I was a starving orphan, stealing to survive. The Agency was the only life I knew before Cara.”
“I studied at the University of Magi in Adaldrida east of the Lyrah Forest. I was determined to find some way to bring my Founder back.”
“The Time rune?”
Twigly nodded, “The Dwarf who found me committed crimes against the Guild.”
“I see.”
“I thought that understanding what destroyed my Founder would help me find a way to restore them to life.”
“Killed by an Agent?” Twigly nodded, his expression only a hint of sadness. “Before we entered Penumbra, you mentioned having never seen it. Your studies never showed you the path to the Shadow plane?”
“I do not have the tattoos as you have, that aid you in the shadowstep.”
“But you tried?”
“My desperate attempts grew near to madness, and the final leg of my search brought me to the Henge of the Ancients.”
“Where you stayed.”
“Where I learned a deeper truth about balance, where I learned that what happened was the result of their actions. Where I learned to see the truth of life and death.”
Syler silently waited for him to continue.
“A deer that loses awareness when drinking from a river will die by the focused panther that hides in the bushes. Each action, each choice has consequences, leading to the result. The panther lives on.”
“So he does.”
“Just like you,” Twigly poked a stubby finger into Syler's chest in the center of the Nature rune.
“What do you mean?”
“During our time together during the Trial, you told me of Cara's death. Why did the Agent choose that time to strike?”
Syler thought back to the day he found Cara, “The Agent who killed Cara waited for when I left for the market, ensuring I would not interfere.”
“And leaving you alive.”
That hadn't occurred to him before. “You think I was left alive for a specific purpose?”
“You are technically a loose end. One with the skills to be a major thorn in the Agency's side, yet they have made no effort to silence you, have in fact provided you with help via Destin and Winny, who would step away under direct order to do so. Why?”
After several moments of thought, Syler said, “Thank you. I have much to consider.”
“You are welcome. You are one of us now, though you may not see yourself as such. Now a question of my own.”
“Anything.”
“When we shadowstepped, I saw shapes in the space between the planes. I saw…” Twigly leaned back trying to think of a way to put it words.
“Ears always said ‘If you had no regrets for any decision you've made in your past, you would see nothing between the planes.’ You saw memories of your past that you regret, events you wish you could have done differently. It's part of the cost for stepping into the source of the Agency's power, designed long ago by people far smarter than us.”
“And you were taught during training to resist such mental battery?” Syler nodded. “If I may ask, what do you see?”
“Leaving that morning for the damned market,” Syler stood to leave, more questions now than when he knocked on the door.
The curtains drifted lazily from the breeze, the cozy red blanket covering them both. Syler, like he did most mornings, enjoyed Cara's rhythmic breathing as she faced away from him.
How had he come to find such peace after all the turmoil of his life? He didn't know, but he refused to waste any of it.
He kissed her right shoulder near the nape of her neck, drawing an unconscious shift of movement. He smiled and arose, beginning his morning ablutions. The black runic tattoos were darker than he remembered, and a strange green rune was centered on his chest, Telperia’s Nature rune. Something to ask his lovely wife about when she arose, perhaps.
“Sy? Where'd you go?”
“In here, my dear.”
“Come back here and cuddle.”
“Yes, ma'am!”
He ran to the bed, diving and shifting his momentum to land softly next to her. He held her close, drowning in her emerald eyes. She still smelled of the flowers she tended.
“I love you so,” she said, gently kissing him.
“I love you more.”
He held her tight for several minutes, kissing her on her forehead. “What is this rune on my chest?”
She pushed back to look it over, “It's so I'll never be far from you, even in death.”
Her thin nightgown shifted, thickening and blackening, her face shifted to a skull with blazing white eyes. Syler writhed away, falling off the bed.
Boney fingers interlocked beneath the skull that shifted into view above him.
“Hello again, fated one.”
“You ruined a perfect dream.”
“That I created.”
“Why do you torment me?”
“This is not to torment, but to remind you for whom you fight.”
“I need no reminder.”
“She is with me,” Chaldia said, tapping her temple, “and with you.” She tapped the rune on his chest.
“So she is no longer a shade?”
“No, child. She was a shade for less than a single day. She is at peace.” Syler sighed with relief. “You, fortunate or not, have a while yet before you may find peace.”
“I only knew peace for a year of my life.”
“And now you truly understand what you fight to protect. Families throughout Artan live in relative peace not dissimilar to what you had. Because of the efforts of a few. Because of the actions of those fated to maintain said peace.”
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“They drilled that into our heads the entirety of our training.”
“And yet you didn't fully grasp the meaning until recently.”
“May I ask a question?” Syler rose and walked over to the chest of drawers, leaning against them as Chaldia continued to lounge on the bed, her boney feet kicking gently in the air.
“Of course.”
“Why me?”
Though she had no lips, Syler could tell by her glowing eyes she had smiled.
“The events of one's life all lead to a final crux. An ultimate decision. A fated choice. You already know the answer. It lives in your training. It dwells in your skill. It resides in your past. All the events of your life have led to one you cannot avoid. It's why they waited for you to leave. It's why the Guild helps when it should harm.”
Syler shot to a seated position from his bed in Bartle's home. He understood.
The sky was a reddish hue when he stepped downstairs to find everyone else already awake.
“Why didn't you wake me?”
“We tried,” Winny said after swallowing a piece of honeyed bread she had almost finished.
“It's now or never.”
“Agreed.”
A heavy knock on the door. Santar had returned.
At the bridge crossing from the Noble District on their trek south toward the plantation within the Agriculture District, Syler called over an orc guard.
“Yes, sir?” the orc looked surprised at the presence of the motley crew.
Syler flared his eye brightly for emphasis, “I need you to spread the word through the guardhouses.”
“What message, sir?”
“There's going to be violence at the Longbottom Plantation tonight. We'll keep deaths to a minimum, but we will have no interference by the guards. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Thank you.”
The guard ran away as fast as his legs would carry him.
“Nicely done,” Bartle said as they walked through the gate.
“Not the first, won't be the last.”
They turn to follow the road east, passing several farms before turning south again, passing the Arena. Several folks moved to approach the Arena champion Santar, but veered away when they spotted those around him.
There was a small forested area to the west of the southerly road that brought them to the Longbottom Plantation.
Twigly and Morrigan led them among the trees, searching for one large enough for the ritual.
Near the center they found one, an old gnarled oak tree.
Twigly and Morrigan set to work, laying out the draka. Twigly set the gem encrusted wooden clock sculpture in a small opening of the tree. He traced the Time rune as Morrigan did the same for the Nature rune, the pearlescent glow meeting the green in a swirl of power that widened into a glowing doorway.
Callista was the first to step through, followed by many other druids. One hundred in total flowed into the tiny forest within Sartak City before the doorway closed behind them.
“We stand with you, Syler.” The first time Callista called him by his name.
“Thank you. Stay hidden in the forest until I give the signal.”
Then Syler and company stepped to the edge of the forest.
Mercenaries from almost every known group in the Darket hung around the outside of the plantation.
Destin scanned across the groups, “I count around 300 strong, more or less.”
“They've been here long enough to get bored,” Winny said with a smirk, “the fools.”
Two scouts walked southerly on the other side of the road. Both were ratkin, with the twitching nose and long tail of the rat, brown fur bristling under sturdy leather armor, inanely chattering to one another.
Winny drew her shadow bow and fired an arrow to thud loudly into a nearby tree.
“Did you hear that?” One ratkin said to the other.
“Of course, you idiot, go check it out!”
The ratkin drew his short sword and slunk quietly to the source.
Destin and Winny stepped into the shadows of the trees, slipping behind each ratkin simultaneously.
The roadside one spotted Winny. He reached for his bow, “Watch-”
The pommel of Destin's shadow dagger smashed into the back of the scout's neck and Winny leapt onto the other, her thighs squeezing around the other's neck before he could raise the alarm. Destin gently dragged his unconscious cargo into the outskirts of the forest.
Twigly pulled some nearby vines and began tying them up.
“Looks like we're down to 298,” Bartle smirked.
“Unless we shadowstep the whole way, it's going to be impossible to get by unnoticed, and it's too far to do that safely.” Syler looked for any opening in the surrounding gatherings. They were too many.
“No time for a ritual to hide us,” Bartle said, “They'll realize two of their scouts are missing by then.”
“We charge 'em!” Santar said louder than Syler would have liked.
“Not our preferred way, but desperate times and all,” a deep voice from behind a nearby tree.
Twenty figures covered with the black strips of shadow armor stepped into view around them.
“Guildmaster Kagun sends his regards,” the one nearest Syler passed him a rolled up parchment.
After unrolling it, Syler quickly read the document, his eyes widening with surprise. Winny and Destin recognized it for what it was, a look of concern flashing between them. A writ of execution.
As he tucked the paper away, he said, “So you aren't here to kill me.”
“If we were there'd be more than 20 of us. No, we're here to help.”
“Good. We need it. Morrigan?”
Morrigan growled, grey fur erupting across her skin, her hide armor and staff melding into her form as her face elongated. The large grey wolf howled.
Callista in the lead, the druids ran out from the forest, flashes of fur, feather, teeth and claws accompanying forms of earth, air, fire, and water elementals. Syler and company ran alongside them.
The nearest mercenaries were swarmed in surprise. Screams of pain joined roars of beasts as black arrows and blades thudded across the battlefield. The surprise was over quickly, and the mercenaries rallied against the druids and agents. Wild forms dropped as arrows, bullets, and flashes of runic power rained down into the druid ranks.
Santar gleefully led the charge to the house, using mercenaries as weapons against other mercenaries, bowling over many with each throw. Morrigan rushed those knocked prone, breaking bones with gnashing teeth.
Bartle darted between his allies, his rapier dancing around his foes before he got surrounded. Sword, mace, and club beat down against his plate armor, scoring minor cuts between the plates and painful reverberations through the heavy blows.
Twigly's huge stone fist smashed an opening for Bartle to run forward, swiping blades gaining ground.
Then they reached the rear guard. The runecasters.
Syler watched as lightning chained out into Santar, lancing out to Morrigan, whose wolf form dissipated as she brought her staff to bear, Bartle, moving unsteadily for several moments as the lightning danced across his metallic plate, then Syler dove away as it arced at him, narrowly avoiding the bolt, only to be engulfed in flames from another caster. His armor covered him fully, protecting him from the heat. His eye flared beneath the shroud, allowing him to fight unhindered by the blinding, guarding straps.
His dark form burst from the magical flames, smoke wisping from his armor, his bow pulled taught. His first arrow struck the caster who blasted him with fire in the knee, shattering the cap. The second struck hard in the shoulder, pinning her to the ground, the pain dropping her into unconsciousness.
He had no time to look over the battlefield. The door into the plantation drew nearer. Santar roared in rage, ignoring blow after blow, bleeding from many wounds as he slammed into the front doors.
Splinters shot inward, the door handle striking an unsuspecting ogre guard square between the eyes as sharp wooden shards pierced through his studded leather armor.
With a gurgle the dead ogre crashed to the floor.
“Oops,” Santar growled without remorse.
The foyer of the Longbottom Plantation was almost bigger than Syler's entire house, with ornately curving staircases winding up to the upper floor and a central table with a small candy dish. Archers fired down from the landing, arrows thudding into Santar and the floor around him.
As Santar charged upstairs, Twigly, back to being a Dwarf again, ran in alongside Syler, his cudgel barely deflecting an incoming chop from a glamida's scimitar.
“Llarkin?” Syler asked as he thrust his dagger at an opening left by the deflected blow.
“Blue-eye,” the glamida answered, rolling his hip to the side, avoiding all but the slightest cut.
“Still with the Silver Tongues?” Syler drew out his stationery rods as he rolled to Llarkin's right, the horizontal strike passing over him harmlessly.
“Nah, Raynard pays better,” he swung his scimitar in angular arc, sparks glancing off of the intercepting rod. “Plus I have a chance to fight you again.”
A tangled mess of bow, quiver, and archer landed hard on top of Llarkin, crumpling him to the ground.
“No time for that, I'm afraid,” Syler said as he stashed his stationery rods back to his pouch.
Llarkin struggled to free himself from the archer, but Syler's shadow blade extended to his throat.
“I only need to kill Maxwell,” Syler said. A deft throw landed pommel into the face of a human guard who burst into the foyer from the right door.
Llarkin's expression didn't change, but he did stop struggling, “Looks like a debt is owed again.”
“Take as many as you are able away from this place and I'll consider us even.”
Llarkin nodded as four more guards, two of them llamafolk like him, a jackspring and an Avian with owl-like facial features, charged into the foyer from deeper within.
Syler helped Llarkin to his feet. “Stow your blades!” Llarkin bellowed at them.
Hesitation.
“Now!” They stood straighter, confusion across faces, but didn't put their blades away. “We’re leaving.”
“But the bounty-”
“Isn't worth your life.”
Bartle and Morrigan ran in as the conversation continued, and the group continued through the central doors that led to the dining area. Winny and Destin were lagging a bit behind.
Syler led the way. “From the drawings, the basement access is in the larders. I never had to go down there when I… left the Agency. The previous owners weren't the sharpest knives in the drawer.”
They met no further resistance until they reached the kitchen. The claxxon of combat still rang outside.
Santar poked at Bartle, then at the numerous small wounds and arrows across his barrelled chest, “Ouchies.”
“I need to look at this lock and key business, you have time. Twigly, please find Winny and Destin, if you please.”
“I hope they're alright,” Morrigan said as she snapped one of the arrows and started pushing it through, drawing a grunt from Santar. Bartle held Pallerva's symbol aloft, sending waves of healing magic to all of them.
“They look after one another,” Twigly said. He faced away from the larder, his eyes scanning for oncoming foes as he slipped back the way they had come.
The larder was filled with the finest foods available in Sartak City. Syler grabbed a small bag of thinly sliced deep fried potatoes, and crunched away as he scanned the floor. The basement access panel hadn't been moved or sealed. Lawsons weren't always very smart.
Syler pushed a barrel along the visible scratches across the floor, and there it was. His eye scanned through the hatch, showing no one in the attached stairwell below.
The tied roll of leather he took from his pouch unrolled out before him, Syler ran his nimble fingers across the various thieves’ tools, selecting several picks. His blue eye focused on the lock, clearly magical. A perilous puzzle indeed.
The moment his first pick crossed the threshold into the locking mechanism, an intensely bright light flared from the lock. It went out immediately when he instinctively pulled the pick, spots swimming across his vision.
Bartle poked his head in the larder, “What was that flash?”
Syler shook his head to try to get the spots to dissipate, “The basement is trapped beneath one lock and key ablaze with light-”
“Where four echoes sigh, dual perilous puzzles for those daring to see,” Bartle finished.
“Stand back,” Syler tapped into his runic tattoo, filling the larder with magical darkness and tried the lock again. The brightness was absorbed completely within, and his vision shifted to the greys of darkvision.
“They are okay,” Twigly called. Syler paused for a moment, hearing a thud.
“Sorry about that,” Winny's voice piped up cheerily. “Got a bit side tracked. We made it!”
The lockpicks deftly moved across the pistons, but he noticed that the telltale sounds of compressed pin tumblers was off, or there was an accompanying sound that threw off any would-be thieves. Echoes.
“Come on, open for me,” Syler whispered as he kept at it. Not being able to rely on the sounds made it harder, but not impossible.
As he compressed the fourth and final pin tumbler, lightning arced into the picks, his hands instinctively pulling away. “Damn it!”
He felt Winny's presence next to him, “The final pin shocked me.”
“You started from front to back?”
“Of course.”
“How many are there?”
“Four.”
Thudding sounds from the kitchen. “Hurry up!” Twigly shouted. “We'll hold them off as long as we can!”
“Give me the first part again,” Syler said.
“Beneath the plantation, where three secrets lie, the basement is trapped beneath one lock and key, ablaze with the light where four echoes sigh, dual perilous puzz- that's it!” Winny exclaimed. “Compress in this order: third, first, fourth, second.”
The lock clicked open. They pulled the trap door, revealing the stairs within. “Let's go!” Syler led his group deeper into the basement. Santar slammed the trap door shut and they all heard sliding above.
“Looks like we're here until it's done.”
Santar pushed against the door, but it wouldn't budge. A set of lightly glowing runes in an outline of a key was etched on the underside of the trapdoor.
The foot of the stairs opened out into a larger room after a short hall. When Syler reached the widening he stopped them.
The room was brightly lit, extending left and right from the opening 20 feet. The same distance of depth into the room led to a mirror that encompassed the entire wall opposite the opening.
Bartle raised his eyebrows, “Why is the furniture only in the reflection?”
“And where are we?” Destin said.
Syler gingerly slid a foot into the room. His reflection appeared, but it was noticeably out of focus.
“Ah,” Destin's question answered.
Morrigan etched the knowledge rune twice and the sun rune before her, gold and copper identifying energies arching out into a sphere in the middle of the empty room. “This room has the Hunting, Shadow, Chaos, and Crafting runes within it, in varying combinations.”
“Oba used Kalak's rune?”
“Yes, but I'm not sure yet how.”
Syler stepped gently into the room. The reflection showed a decorated sitting room with a colorful rug and elaborate tiles. On either side of the opening were two paintings, each depicting a different halfling dressed in noble finery. The space around him seemed made of blank grey stone. He scanned the room with his activated blue eye.
The invisible furniture was limned the same bright blue, but he found that the floor was lined with something he couldn't see through. Solid across the whole floor.
He reached to touch a chaise lounge near him in the reflection. Resistance. Plush padding.
“Interesting. Everyone stay back. Winny and Destin, this room is undoubtedly trapped.”
“On it,” Destin said as they too stepped into the room.
“Syler,” Bartle was focused on the reflection. “I think you're less blurry now.”
Indeed, as he moved back closer to the entryway, his reflection drifted further out of focus. “Curious.”
He navigated around to the front of the poofed chair, able to make out the details of his face in the reflection.
A panel in the floor dropped open. Destin dove to try to catch him, but Syler fell into a pit. Without thinking his wings shot out, accidentally slamming into Destin mid-dive and launching him into one of the nearby invisible couches. The hole was only 5 feet square, and his extended wings prevented him from plummeting into the spikes he saw below.
He flexed his wings, launching himself to his feet next to the hole, which closed again as soon as he stepped away from the opening.
“You okay?” Syler asked as Destin shifted to a seated position.
“Feels weird sitting on something I can't see.”
“Looks like we should stay blurred.”
“Pitfalls, like the second part of the riddle!” Winny said with perhaps more excitement than intended. “Beware the floor where false steps tread. One must hold the trigger where pitfalls are spread. To navigate this deadly snare, seek the eyes that keenly stare.”
Syler, Winny, and Destin searched around the room, focused on their reflections and marking the areas that were clearly trapped, tracing the areas with wisps of shadow.
“You all can enter now, just avoid the marked areas.”
Twigly was first to step into the room, and with a brief flash of light, the entry was sealed with a barrier.
Morrigan poked at the barrier, “Impassable.”
Twigly poked from his side and found he could still pass through it. When he stepped back into the hall, the barrier dissipated. Bartle stepped through and the barrier returned with the same results.
“Looks like it has limited capacity,” Twigly said.
Winny paced around one of the pits rubbing her hands together in thought, “Maybe a reference to the first stanza and the four echoes, or Oba just liked the number four.”
Syler looked over the reflection again. “There aren't any statues or suits of armor, so the ‘eyes that keenly stare’ must be from the Longbottom paintings.”
Still seeing through the invisibility, Syler moved closer to the paintings. The first on the left most side when facing the hall was a handsome older halfling woman, one of the first Longbottom matriarchs. Karan Longbottom was the inscribed name. She had curly blond hair and wore a flowing, deep purple dress and a glare that could spoil milk. She was looking toward the center of the room.
The next painting was a family portrait, depicting the parents looming menacingly over their four children, two girls and two boys all with curly blond hair. One of the boys’ faces was scratched off to the point of seeing the wood backing beneath it. As with Karan, they wore finery of rare blues and purples, flaunting wealth. Kayln, Kristof, Kyra, Krystine, Kane, and - the final name was scratched out. The adults and children looked toward the wall on Syler's left.
The third painting, now on the other side of the opening, was of a younger Karan standing next to a dark haired man, two young halflings sitting between them. Karan, Thom, Kristof, and Kylen Longbottom. They looked to the wall on Syler's left.
The final painting was somber, with Karan, Thom, and an older Kristof standing around a coffin, Kylen's features on the form in the open casket. All eyes looked to the right wall.
Syler returned to the first painting and tried to lift it. It was either far heavier than appeared or it was fixed to the wall. He lifted the second easily from its hook, but set it back to look over them again.
“So they need to be rearranged,” Bartle said. He motioned to Destin and they pulled down the paintings.
“It looks like the paintings tell a bit of the history of the Longbottom family,” Bartle said. “Do you know the name of the one they scratched out?”
“Not offhand, no. I recognize the names and faces of the larger family portrait. They were here when I completed my retirement.”
“And thus would be the most recent portrait,” Bartle set the painting on the furthest right hook.
Syler set the one with the coffin next to the Karan's, and Destin placed the last one.
Click. The floor in the center of the room slid open and a pedestal rose up, a palm sized golden button in its center.
Syler inspected around the button, finding no evidence of traps and placed his palm on the button. A pulse of energy rippled over the mirror, leaving an opening to venture further in. Two guards stood in the opening and fired their heavy crossbows at Syler.
Bartle shoved him out of the way, the bolts striking true, punching through his heavy plate mail. With a grunt, Bartle slumped to the ground, his breathing belabored. As Syler's hand left the button, the mirror returned to its original state.
“NO!” Morrigan cried out, banging against the barrier. Destin pulled Bartle back through the barrier, trailing a thick line of blood. Twigly already had his healing poultice out ready to begin administering what aid he could.
As they worked on stabilizing Bartle, Santar rushed into the room. Winny reached to grip the upper ledge of the pedestal, hiding as best she could behind the heavy stone. Syler stood moving to where the opening was as Santar stood before him.
“Now!”
Winny pushed the button, and Santar burst through the doorway, arms sweeping wildly. He knocked crossbows aside as he grabbed both guards by their skulls with his lower mechanical arms.
“YOU HURT MY BUDDY!” Santar screamed, a bloody mist covering his face as he brought his hands together.
Syler noted the ten foot wide hallway running about 30 feet before branching left and right. Three more guards burst into view from the right, stunned momentarily by the gore before them.
Daggers from either side of him flipped end over end, piercing the left guard through the neck and the right in the chest. As the blades melted away from the fallen forms, the middle guard dropped his crossbow and fled deeper into the basement.
Syler ran back to where Bartle was already sitting up, blood dribbling down from his mouth.
“Thank goodness Pallerva has blessed me against poisons.”
“Indeed. Thank you.”
“You'd've done the same for me.”
“And not been hit,” Syler smiled. Bartle's laugh quickly became a pained sound.
“He needs to rest,” Morrigan said. “I'll look after him.”
Syler nodded, “Agreed. Would you mind pressing the button for us?”
“Too many people.”
“Santar and Destin are already across the threshold.”
“Assuming the mirror is the threshold.”
It was. The group of seven was down to five.
The doorway closed behind them as they reached the split in the hall.
“Vault is left, stairs further down to the right,” Destin said.
“Why does it appear to branch in multiple directions?” Indeed, both the left and right paths led to a multitude of branching intersections. A single glowing line stretched on the ceiling out several such intersections before turning out of sight.
Winny recited, “A maze of magic, elusive and sly, veiling the path with a deceitful sky. To pierce the ruse and avoid despair bring a mind astute with perceptive flair.”
While they began discussing the stanza, Santar rifled through the belongings of the dead guards. He found several small pouches of draka, tossing them aside. He looked over the masterfully crafted crossbows and slung one across his back. He found several rings he didn't care about, a ring of keys from which he liked the jangly sounds, and found they all wore the same amulet with the Lawson crest. He popped one from the neck of the guard, appreciating the encrusted gems, and put it around his neck before joining the others.
“-the glowing path on the ceiling must be false,” Winny was saying.
“Of course, but how do we find the route out?”
Santar cheerily said, “Glowy line on floor?”
“There isn't a floor line.”
Santar nodded vigorously, “Yes there is!” He reached down and poked a thick finger on the ground.
“There's nothing there, big guy,” Syler said before noticing the Lawson amulet around his neck. “Where'd you get that?”
Santar motioned to the guards.
Twigly grabbed one of the amulets, “Oh. It is true there is a line on the floor now.”
“So the guards don't get lost in the maze!” Winny's typical excitement.
“Of course! You're a genius, big guy!”
Santar, having never been called that before, beamed with pride and thrust his chest out. “I am!” He jangled the keys happily.
“There’s not enough for everyone, so lead the way,” Syler said, letting all but himself wear the amulets.
