Брюс Корделл - Oath of Nerull

“How should the novitiate have answered?” concluded the skull.

After it finished speaking, it lay inert in the corner, empty sockets staring blindly ahead.

Nebin coughed and said, “I hope all this business about Lo-Riao and the Door of Midnight is secondary to the real answer, otherwise we’re in trouble, my friends. I’ve never heard of either.”

Hennet said, “It is some sort of mathematical trick.”

The sorcerer furrowed his brow as he looked at the inert skull.

Brek Gorunn mentally ran through the skull’s speech. He’d have made the same choice as the novitiate—it seemed clear that the first two masters had simply responded with a countersign equal to half of the number given out by the door. But, when the novitiate did responded with half of ten, the pattern was broken.

He said aloud, “The pattern isn’t half the first number, that’s clear.”

Hennet nodded. “Yes, too simple. All this talk of midnight and dread voices makes me wonder whether magic isn’t involved?”

Nebin said, “Maybe Lo-Riao is a god of the ancient city. What if the formula is part of a ritual lost to time? We won’t hit upon it by chance.”

“This is a test of wit, not memory,” said Ember. “If that’s true, we should not look to old rituals and secret numbers, arbitrarily applied, for our answer. There must be a pattern we can puzzle out.”

Brek silently agreed. They sat silent for a while, each trying to work the puzzle according to their own predispositions. Brek wondered if it was simpler than he was trying to make it.

How many letters are there in six? he wondered. Three, of course…

“Wait, I see another pattern!” he burst out. “It is mathematical, as Hennet said first, but it’s even simpler than we first supposed. See? How many letters are in the word twelve? Six! And in the word six there are three letters. Those were the countersigns given by the masters.”

“So, if the Door of Midnight gives the sign ‘ten’,” said Hennet, “the counter-sign must be three; there are three letters in the word ten.”

Ember grinned at the dwarf.

“Is your answer ‘three’?” broke in the skull, suddenly attentive.

Ember looked around, then said, “Three is our answer.”

The skull said nothing, and the silence stretched.

The floor below them lurched, then began rising. A haze of dust, loosened from the walls and ceiling, filled the air. The pools of liquid on the floor drained away. The floor lifted thirty feet or more than stopped, just as they all began to worry about the approaching ceiling. At that height, they could see an exit that was hidden from below. It was situated on the side of the shaft opposite from where they had entered.

“Brek Gorunn, old dog, who would have guessed you’re a first rate riddle master?” exclaimed Nebin. “We’re out!”

The methodical exploration of the ancient labyrinth agreed with Hennet. He relished it, unlike his friend Nebin. The gnome declared on more than one occasion his wish to be free of the dark ways. The slow revelation of hidden paths forgotten below the earth, leading to further mysterious chambers, tunnels, tombs, and deeper passages, thrilled his sense of adventure. Danger threatened every step, but of course that was the spice. What was the lost purpose of these ancient halls? Were the delvers humanoid, or did they belong to some older, pre-humanoid species? It was fun to speculate.

They bypassed a chamber whose ceiling was upheld by statues carved to resemble giant men bearing a great burden. They walked along a hall where corroded metal plates in the ceiling buzzed and gleamed as they passed, but which offered no other clue as to their purpose. They walked through a tiny waterfall that issued from a shaft far above, and drained away through a side passage that led steeply down, possibly to join some sunless sea of myth. Or so Hennet liked to imagine.

Even now they walked a passage hung with the tatters of time-lost tapestries, Brek in front holding the gleaming lantern aloft. A garble of whispered voices issued from the very stone beneath their feet. When they first heard the noises, the company stopped and thoroughly investigated, but could find no inherent threat. Thus, they walked on, despite the susurrus of voices speaking in tongues long dead on the surface.

For a long stretch—since the Test of Wit in fact—nothing assailed their passage. Such was the sorcerer’s thought when they came to a side door along the passage. Bones of some past traveler lay strewn before the door. Here he had apparently met his end. The catacombs were moist and given to rot, and the traveler’s possessions were decomposed, but a dagger still glinted, untouched by time. The nearby door was rent and notched, as if the traveler had spent his last hours desperately trying to force his way through. If so, he had failed in that attempt and died far from light and hope.

Nebin ventured, “Why do you suppose he wanted to pass this door? Is our way the same, to reach the revived temple?”

Brek Gorunn looked at the door, then forward down the hall they had been traversing, and said, “My gut tells me this door is not our path. But it conceals something, or so this poor fellow believed.”

“We should open the door ourselves, to see what we can see,” broke in Hennet. This was exactly the sort of thing he loved. “Perhaps a treasury, or a library filled with the lore of times forgotten?”

He threw in the library in an attempt to get Nebin interested.

“Or a demon bound with spells of somnolence, until disturbed,” said Brek Gorunn. “It may be both, or neither, but it is not our quest. Later, we may return when other needs are met. It would be foolhardy to turn aside now, wasting our strength when we will soon have such need of it.”

“Brek Gorunn is right, Hennet,” said Ember. She put a hand on his shoulder as if commiserating. Her touch was enough to convince him.

Besides, he realized the wisdom of Brek’s words. “At least let’s gather this poor fellows belongings,” he said. “We might learn something of his purpose.”

So saying, he retrieved the dagger. He turned it over in his hands, and the others drew close. Beautiful, he thought. The handle was carved to resemble a unicorn, and the blade, its horn. Its ageless appearance suggested preservation only magic could explain. Testing that hypothesis was easy enough—Hennet concentrated on the dagger and felt the answering pulse of enchantment. It wasn’t an overpowering response, but it was definite.

The sorcerer looked up to his companions and said, “This dagger is magical.”

A harsh voice from farther up the hallway said, “Then hand it over!”

Hennet started, nearly dropping the dagger, as the others whirled around. Farther up along the passage, a band of men appeared, unshuttering their lamps and drawing their swords.

There were perhaps half a dozen of them. The four in the front, three humans and a halfling, waved swords as they came on, two by two down the corridor. Two elves in the rear held cocked bows.

Another man, better dressed than the others and standing behind the elves, called out, “The dagger, and your other valuables. We’re the Raiding Lions. I’m Jeelsen. If you’ve heard of us, you know that we are merciful to those who surrender up their wealth to us when asked.”

Brek Gorunn cursed, “By Moradin’s overflowing tankard, what are you doing down here?”

Nebin called out, “Actually, we haven’t heard of you, Jellyfish!”

Hennet elbowed the gnome in the ribs, hard.

“The name,” screamed the brigand, “is Jeelsen! If you haven’t heard of us, then know now that while we are merciful to some, to those who give us trouble we are bloodthirsty to the last. Which shall we visit on you? Mercy, or death? Either way, we’ll have your valuables. Surrender now and live!”