Chapter 53
Holding the trident named Wave, Dolor realizes that they’ve solved the prophecy’s riddle.
Come to me, if you have the faith
and will to prove your worth.
But I do not eat from an empty plate
So you most prove your worthDeep within these hallowed halls
Three great treasures hide
Bring them to me, one and all
And your worth I will decide.The first, called Wave, requires battle
With the beast in the boiling bubble
‘Cross cavern vast, where the chain-links rattle
Lies Whelm, past water-spouts double.Blackrazor yet remains to be won
Underneath inverted ziggurat.
That garnered, think not you’re done
For now you’ll find you’re caught.Your choice is made, it can’t be undone
It’s time to see this through.
Great and glorious am I, the One!
Death or glory? It’s up to you.
The tiefling recalls Gustaf’s interpretation: “Retrieve the three items, most likely weapons, for this being called One and get a reward.”
The tiefling looks around at his companions. Bilwin stands tall after the battle, Whelm clutched tightly in his hand and his head tipped a little to the side, as though he’s listening to something. Next to him, Gven still kneels in the sand with her hand resting on Tempest Edge’s pommel, the greatsword saving her from falling to the ground in exhaustion. Grindlefoot stands off to the side, slightly distant from the others, his bowler hat askew but unharmed. As usual, Mond remained out of melee range and is now peering into the boiling water behind the translucent barrier, trying to understand how it works.
The companions are tired from combat and uncertain about what to do next, when Gustaf comes running into their midst. “Get it off!” He’s clawing at his back, desperately trying to remove Blackrazor. After several frantic moments, the blade slips free and clatters to the ground.
Whelm, the magical mace in Bilwin’s hand, begins to vibrate. Subtle at first, and then undeniable. Soon it’s unbearable. Dwarven hands are renowned for their strength and the cleric’s face reveals his effort to hold on to the mace. The shaking continues to intensify, becoming too much for even his grip, and his fingers finally release it.
Dolor’s hand starts to grow cold, the trident he only just discovered and claimed begins to show signs of frost along its length. The razor sharp tips glow an iridescent blue as they reach temperatures as cold as the darkest depths of the sea. The cold burns, it’s too much, the tiefling’s fingers release on instinct.
All three weapons hit the floor. A deep silence follows.
They begin to glow. A hum rises from them, eerie and harmonic. A resonance not of sound, but of pressure—felt in their bones.
Then a thrum fills the vast cavern. Deep. Not heard, but felt.
Something shifts around them and each of them gasps—their lungs full of air and yet starved of oxygen. The ground beneath their feet feels oppressively solid, and terrifyingly insubstantial. They’re rooted in place and adrift all at once.
Above them, the space between worlds tears open, thin as a whisper. A rift. Beyond, inside the sliver of an opening, something watches. Waits. Patiently.
“Och, nay…nay! Had I kent, I wid ne’er hae—”
Thamnoki stumbles forward, eyes wide in horror. He grabs the trident, Wave, from the ground at Dolor’s feet and with a furious cry, hurls it like a bolt of lightning into the air.
The trident pierces the membrane. It stretches—groans—and then rips wide open. The boiling sea rushes in.
A wall of scalding water crashes into the chamber. The companions are slammed backward, their lungs punched empty of air. The force is crushing. The heat is unbearable. Attempts to scream only let the water fill their mouths. They reach for each other, for anything—but the flood surges faster than they can react.
The water isn’t just drowning them, it’s boiling them alive. Every breath is pain. Their limbs flail every which way. The chamber collapses around them, darkness swirls in, endless and cold and burning.
Time halts.
The thrashing water stops mid-surge. Drops hang frozen like crystal teardrops in the air. The heat vanishes instantly. Soundless stillness swallows everything.
A figure steps through the frozen maelstrom, untouched. Her presence is calm amid the devastation. Silver hair drifts around her shoulders and her cloak shimmers like a starlit sky. In her hand, a thin, dark wooden staff topped with a unicorn’s head.
“Enough.”
She speaks without urgency, only truth.
“You have played into his hand.” Her shimmering blue eyes turn to gaze at the fractured rift, the shattered chamber, and the floating forms of the barely-conscious companions.
“But there are still more cards to be dealt.”
She lifts a hand casually and her voice lowers, “We shall soon see what you’re made of.”
Mond wakes to the sound of coughing, as though someone took a drink and it went down the wrong pipe, so to speak.
Sunlight filters through gauzy curtains. The scent of sea salt and flowers drift from an open window. The sorcerer turns to see the others rousing from beds in a fastidiously kept bunkroom. He sees that Gven’s wounds have been tended, as well as the others. He’s wearing sleeping clothes, but soon discovers his regular clothing cleaned, folded, and waiting for him on a table, next to everyone else’s.
“You’re all awake. Good. He’ll want to see you.”
After splashing water on their faces from two basins in the room and returning to their own garb, the companions exit the room to find a portly man of short stature waiting.
“I am Quentin Voss, butler to the Lord of Neverwinter, Dagult Neverember. He wanted to be certain you were tended to and well rested before speaking. The Lady told him you will have questions, and he’ll do his best to answer them soon. Unfortunately, I fear a proper meal must wait for now.”
Gven’s stomach grumbles loudly as they follow him down a lengthy hallway, furnished with brass lanterns, polished dark oak tables, and extravagant oil paintings decorating the walls. Of all the companions, the slender half-elf nods in silent agreement to the half-orc’s unspoken protest.
They enter an ornately decorated sitting room, two settees with dark-colored velvet cushions and three gilded chairs surround a knee-high tea table. Dagult carries a regal demeanor, obviously high-born and used to being the one talking, but there’s an accompanying sense of haggardness. His eyes are weary, almost cloudy, as though lack of sleep is finally catching up to him.
“Friends, for I hope that we can become such in time, you have been given to my care by The Lady. She is not one to be denied, even by—perhaps especially by—the likes of me. Know that I take her requests with the utmost of seriousness. You shall be our guests for as long as you like, or as long as she requests. I know her well enough to understand that she never leaves a loose end; she will return for you in her own time. Meanwhile….”
He spreads his lengthy arms in a way of apology, “Food will be served shortly, but I must request your indulgence a bit longer. The Lady tells me that you have particular skills, an unusual level of competence, and a proven willingness to help others. I am in dire need of such a group. There have been several kidnappings in my city, Neverwinter, of late. Our constables have been unable to find the perpetrators or the victims. There are whisperings of odd goings-on in the Neverdeath Graveyard, but, alas, the ineptitude of our constablery confounds them from making any progress. Would you be willing to investigate these criminal acts for us, in the name of the city’s law, while you await The Lady’s return?”
The companions go through the pretenses of discussing it quietly, but it’s obvious to all of them that they have no choice in the matter. They have no idea where they’re at, how they got here, or how to even get home. They’re at the complete mercy of Lord Neverwinter and The Lady. Besides, he’s not wrong. Every time they’ve been given the choice to help someone in need or walk away, they inevitably choose the path less traveled. Collectively, they nod in agreement.
“Wonderful! And now, please allow Quentin to escort you to the dining hall, where I hope you’ll find the feast to your liking. We shall convene on the morrow to discuss the particulars of the investigation.”
Dolor hesitates, “Before we go, might I ask about two others in our party? A short human man named Gustaf Mondalbrot and a most likely inebriated dwarf, named Thamnoki Grumblebuster. Do you know where they might be?”
“Ah, yes. Gustaf woke before you, apparently he suffered far fewer wounds and recovered more quickly. His excitement was barely contained to discover the extensive size of my library. He is currently entombed there, devouring texts long since given to dust. I am not aware of another dwarf,” he briefly nods to Bilwin. “The Lady made no mention of them. I can relay your concern to her the next time we meet, but that’s infrequent. You might even see her before I, given her interest in your welfare.”