Chapter Four #2
*Not at all. But dark magic has recently taken root, and my kingdom is suffering from a deathly curse.
* There’s a tense moment of stillness before Sindra hears Brightmorn’s voice again, whisper-soft in her mind.
*We’ve been able to contain it, but there are some who worry that it is beginning to spread outside of our borders.
The dragon may have wandered too close—close enough to catch it. *
Sindra and Moss both take a large step back from the dragon’s headless corpse.
*You must take me back home. Back to Moros.*
“I mustn’t do anything,” Sindra huffs. “How long have you been here, anyway? It may already be too late.”
*Please,* Brightmorn stresses. *You must return me to my master; they can solve this. I’ll reward you with your heart’s desire. Gold, riches, a castle, a title—name it and it’s yours.*
“And who is your master?” Sindra asks.
*I haven’t a clue.* A pause. *But I’ll know them when I see them.*
“You’re really selling this.”
But it’s Moss’s wide hazel eyes that capture Sindra’s gaze. “The enclave, Sindra.”
The enclave that sprawls along the base of the mountains—the place they have both called home for an entire decade now—sits right on the border of Moros. If the curse spreads, the enclave will be the first to suffer.
Never mind the enclave, though. Sindra has never been able to say no to those eyes.
“Fine,” she says with a sigh. “We’ll gather what supplies we need, and then we’ll—we’ll give it a go.”
*Come along, my dears. I will show you the way.*
Sindra and Moss don’t waste any time.
After gathering supplies and warning the enclave, they head straight for the border along a nearby merchant’s road.
When they arrive the next morning at a gate tucked into the mountains, two guards turn them away.
“There’s a sickness spreading,” the elf on the left warns, “and visitors are not allowed. It’s for your own good—trust us. ”
*There must be another way,* Brightmorn whines in the back of Sindra’s head.
Despite her temptation to take the guard’s advice and turn around, the sword’s insistence and Moss’s concern for the enclave convince her to press steadily on. And so they circle back, Moss using her druidic magic to compel the trees to part and guide them along a path less traveled.
Without signs or guards to mark their journey, Sindra assumed it would be impossible to tell when they arrived in Moros. Instead, the transition between the two kingdoms is abrupt and frightening.
The first difference is the light. It was a clear morning when they found the gate and the guards, but violent storm clouds fill the sky as they pass through the mountains, thick and dark enough to ward off the sun. The world around Sindra and Moss dims to a rich purple dusk.
But it’s the plants that catch Moss’s attention.
Nothing is green. The tall old pines thin in number until all that remain are leafless trees whose bark is gray and peeling, and the grass—where there is any—grows in brittle brown patches between the dark soil and the rocks.
Immediately, Moss kneels and gently traces the drooping stem of a pale five-petaled wildflower.
The flower perks up at her touch, as they always do, but the moment Moss removes her hand, it slumps toward the ground again.
Sindra nervously grips Brightmorn’s hilt where the blade hangs at her side. “How long has it been like this?” she thinks aloud. But the sword does not answer.
Brightmorn? she thinks. How long has Moros been so…dead? Are we still going the right way?
But the weapon remains silent.
“What the fuck?” I say. “What’s wrong with it?”
From across the table, Wesley steadily meets my gaze. “Brightmorn stops responding to you.”
I blink—hard. “What do you mean?”
He shrugs casually. “Sindra can no longer hear the blade’s voice in her head. It’s gone quiet.”
I stare at him for a long moment. “Does it still seem more powerful than my old weapon? Is it still magical?”
“Now that Sindra takes a long look at it…not really. It seems like any other sword. Some of its golden shine has faded.”
My jaw tightens.
“So you gave me a magic item that breaks as soon as the campaign actually starts,” I say flatly.
Mona leans forward slightly, her hands folded atop her character sheet. “Maybe it’s just an effect of the curse?” she says uncertainly, trying to break the sudden tension.
“Does Moss’s staff still work?” I ask.
I watch a muscle twitch in Wesley’s sharp jaw. “Moss’s staff is unaffected.”
I glance at Arthur, Colin, and Shay, whose expressions vary from uncomfortable to impassive. We haven’t even introduced their characters yet, but I’m not ready to let this go.
“Why is my sword the only thing that’s broken?” I press.
Wesley’s laugh is dry. “Why don’t you actually play the game to find out?”
“Okay, fine. Sindra takes a moment to try to investigate the sword, to see if she can figure out what’s wrong with it, and—”
“Sindra doesn’t have time to investigate,” Wesley suddenly snaps impatiently. “Because at that moment, a skeletal hand shoots up from the ground and grabs her ankle.”
“Wow,” I say with a dry laugh, my tone dripping with sarcasm. “How convenient.”
Wesley’s eyes harden, and then he says the words that signal we’re about to fight—as if I didn’t already know. His voice is a low growl.
“Roll for initiative, Reagan.”
Sindra yells out a warning as a skeleton claws its way out of the dirt, its grime-crusted teeth snapping at her, the hand wrapped around her ankle jerking her to the ground. But before Moss can run to her aid, they’re both distracted by an unsettling clattering that echoes throughout the mountains.
To Sindra’s horror, an entire swarm of undead begins to surround them, crawling from under the brush, pushing their way out of the ground, or descending from the mountain’s many caves.
They are in various states of decay—some recently passed and disgustingly fleshy; others nothing more than ivory bones—but they all have the same glowing, burning red eyes as the dragon.
Sindra shoves the first skeleton off of her and sends its jaw flying with a strike to its skull.
It stumbles backward, giving her just enough room to push herself to her knees, swing Brightmorn in a wide arc, and shatter its rib cage.
Sindra looks wildly around until she finds Moss battling an entire group of undead alone.
The orc has them tangled up in a net of roots, slowing them down just enough to give her time to strike each skull with her staff when they get too close.
Sindra races forward, cutting into them from behind and severing their spines.
But they keep coming, climbing out from between the rocks and running down the mountain’s steep incline. Moss is the first to voice what Sindra already knows.
“There’s too many of them.” Her voice is shrill. “Sindra, we can’t—”
“You don’t stop fighting, Moss,” Sindra says steadily as she breaks through the group encircling the druid. She moves so they’re standing back-to-back as skeletons continue to reach for them, broken hands grasping. “You don’t quit.”
Moss sets her jaw. “I don’t quit.”
In the chaos of the battle, Sindra relies on her training, on the many years spent practicing techniques and then putting them to work on the field.
There’s a peace in knowing that she’s doing everything she can—that even if this is it, she’s giving it her best. So even as bones crowd her vision and unholy screeching fills her ears, the peace—
The screeching rises in pitch, and a sudden gust of air stirs her hair as the largest, ugliest bird she’s ever seen crashes into the swarm of undead.
The vulture mows over half a dozen skeletons in one fell swoop, and Moss shrieks as an arrow explodes through the skull of the skeleton clawing at her neck.
Bolts of arcane energy whistle overhead, and three skeletons shatter as the purple missiles land.
Amid the chaos, Sindra sees a bulky hunk of wood in the distance, growing larger and larger until finally a man shoves his way through the horde, tall tower shield held out steadily before him.
“Behind me,” he barks, his gravelly voice deep and sharp with command.
Sindra bristles; it’s been a long time since she’s taken orders from anyone. But the dozens of cuts she’s sustained are beginning to sting, and her shoulders ache from holding Brightmorn before her. She nods and steps behind the man’s guard, she and Moss standing to either side of his shoulders.
Even with the aid of the newcomers, it feels like whole days pass before the tide turns.
But Sindra recognizes a well-trained swordsman when she sees one, and she quickly falls in sync with the older human currently taking the brunt of the attack, defending his blind spots and taking advantage of the openings he gives her.
She notes the way his own sword occasionally glows with holy energy as he deals devastating blows to the skeletons, his eyes momentarily shuttering as if in prayer. A paladin, Sindra thinks, impressed.
Moss is able to take a break from defending herself—fighting really isn’t her strong suit—and she focuses instead on knitting up the worst of Sindra’s and the stranger’s wounds.
Her staff glitters with power, enhancing her spell, and green druidic magic glows in the cut on the back of Sindra’s hand.
Tiny flowers burst forth from the wound, and when Sindra idly brushes them away, her skin is healed and whole again.
As the undead’s numbers dwindle, Sindra searches for where the arrows and arcane bolts are coming from, but all she can see are two cloaked figures shrouded by a tree’s branches farther up the mountain.
Her focus returns to the fight in front of her when the vulture squawks loudly again and pierces the skull of the nearest skeleton with its sharp black beak.