The Game Masters of Garden Place Page 5

  “You are really into it,” Persephone added. “I mean, not that the rest us of aren’t, but…”

  They all nodded.

  “Look, we agreed we’d go in order,” insisted Ralph. “That’s what Declan would want us to do. Follow the dice.”

  Jojo shrugged. “If that’s how you feel, I guess I could give it a try next session.”

  THE BATTLE FOR THE SERPENTS

  The five adventurers sat at the table, each lost in their own thoughts. It had been a struggle from the moment they’d landed at the grimy port city of BlackBriar.

  First there were the bandits at the dockside, who had fallen upon them, attacking from all sides. Torgrim had been able to throw up a protective shield, which had given them just enough time to draw their weapons. Jandia handily dispatched three of the brigands with a single stroke of her sword, while Bram used Salt and Pepper to finish off the remaining two.

  Then they proceeded toward the Ghoul’s Maw, the name of the tavern given to them by an old beggar as a natural meeting place of old sailors.

  Following his directions, they found themselves at the mouth of a pitch-dark alley. Gerontius used his orb to bring light, which revealed giant spiders gliding toward them, mouths open, ready to strike.

  It was harder to fight off the spiders than the bandits, but Mirak’s arrows were true, and she dispatched the queen, who landed on her back, squashing a number of her children, sending black blood spraying everywhere.

  And finally, as soon as they arrived at the tavern, the stench of suspicion rose from every table. The barkeep, a grubby, muscled half orc, leered at Mirak as she walked in. She ignored him.

  Jandia had had enough of this town. In an instant, she pulled him over the bar and smashed several nearby bottles of grog over his head. He staggered, and the rest of the room went silent.

  The barkeep shook his head to clear it and stared at the party in front of him. Then he laughed, spit some blood onto the floor, and shuffled back behind the bar. “Five pints, on the house.”

  And that was only the beginning of the adventure. They all wondered what challenges this fourth serpent would bring.

  From the corner, an ancient toothless man wheezed away at an antique sailor’s hornpipe:

  “The Isle of Zwaardwood Has a Tree of Swords

  Raise the sail and up she rises!

  It’s taken the lives of Knights and Lords

  Raise the Sail, boys, we’re bound away!”

  The adventurers exchanged glances.

  “Then it’s the Isle of Zwaardwood, is it?” asked Bram.

  “Or just a drunken sailor spouting nonsense,” grumbled Torgrim.

  “Well! Are these the fabled Serpent hunters all of Demos speaks of?” asked a voice.

  They turned as one to see a tall elf clad in black leather from head to toe. Although as slim and elegant as Gerontius, he could not have been more different. He had a nasty smile, and was expertly twirling a small sword in his gloved left hand.

  “Who is it who asks?” said Torgrim wearily.

  “I was not addressing you, Dwarf Ugly,” said the rogue elf. “I can barely stand to look at you.”

  Torgrim gripped his hammer but did not take the bait.

  “Ah, but I am being rude,” said the elf. “Please, let me introduce myself and my party. I am Gandaril, and this is Markon,” he said, indicating a human wizard clad in armor at a nearby table.

  “And may I present Grokk, Brimblebeard, and Faffnung,” Gandaril continued, pointing to a brawny orc fighter hefting a heavy oaken shield; a small, nasty-looking goblin who seemed to be a druid; and a dwarf ranger armed with a pitted and battle-worn ax.

  “Well met,” Bram said, his hands on the hilts of his daggers. If there was to be a fight, he would be ready.

  “Well met indeed,” laughed Gandaril darkly. “We have been searching for you.”

  Jandia had had enough. She kicked the table over, drawing her blade. “Enough! If it is a fight you wish for, have at it!”

  Jojo looked up from her notes, the d20 in her hand.

  Persephone was looking out the window, Noel was reading a book, and Ralph and Cammi looked bored out of their skulls.

  “What?” she demanded. “Is there a problem? I thought this was going great.”

  Cammi spoke up timidly. “It’s just that…well, it seems like all we’re doing is fighting.”

  Jojo tossed her papers so they flew everywhere. “You think this is easy?”

  “I’m sorry! Forget it!” Cammi said, pulling down the bill of his baseball cap to escape.

  Jojo threw the die onto the board with such force it bounced off and rolled under the couch. “Sor-reee. I was trying to make it more, you know, fun.”

  Ralph sensed this was only going to escalate, and he felt that some healing was in order. He was a cleric, after all. “You were doing a great job,” he lied. “And I’m sure it’s hard to come up with something we all can get into.”

  Jojo regarded him for a second. Then, grudgingly, she handed the notes to Cammi. “Here. Next week it’s your turn. Good luck. You think I did such a bad job.”

  “I didn’t say that!” moaned Cammi. “I just thought—”

  “I know!” said Jojo. “I’m sorry. I didn’t really like being the GM anyway. You’re the one who always comes up with such great stories.”

  They all had to admit this was true. Besides the plays he came up with at home, whenever there was a writing assignment in class, Cammi’s were always the most imaginative.

  Cammi looked at the sheets in a panic. “So, RPG…how does this work, anyway?”

  Ralph looked over his shoulder. “These are notes…suggestions to get you to the next serpent. The best way to do it is to cover up all but the paragraph you’re using. That way you don’t know where the story is going.”

  Cammi looked skeptical. “So I can make up the rest?”

  “With our help,” Ralph added quickly. “You know, like with Declan.”

  Cammi nodded, and a small smile appeared on his face. “Sure. This could be really fun….”

  THE ELF’S KISS

  “Master Cleric,” Bram gasped as he slapped at his arm for what felt like the hundredth time, “are you sure you have no healing spell for biting insects?”

  Jandia was up ahead, slashing at the dense undergrowth of the junglelike forest they had found on the Isle of Zwaardwood. No villages, no taverns, not so much as a hut. Just jungle. And no tree of swords to be found.

  Mirak closed her eyes and strummed her harp. She began to sing a song that connected her to the birds and creatures around them. She was asking for guidance.

  Gerontius raised his head. Elves were usually at home in woodlands, but this strange place, with its heavy, perfumed air, made him uneasy. All around him were flowers he had seen nowhere else in all his travels.

  Mirak opened her eyes and smiled. “They tell me that what we seek lies no more than fifty paces ahead.”

  “Can you ask the birds to eat these blasted bloodsuckers?” griped Torgrim, waving his hand in front of his face as Bram nodded vigorously in agreement.

  Mirak looked amused. Somehow she was untouched. “I did. You should no longer be troubled.”

  They finally reached a clearing. The air changed as they broke through the jungle, bringing a welcome coolness to their flesh and presenting them with an extraordinary sight. A huge tree, tall and broad, stood before them. Branches reached out on all sides, and the trunk seemed to rise into the clouds. High above them, a canopy of leaves blocked out the sun. All around the tree, fernlike plants with long, sharp leaves stuck up from the ground like a natural fence.

  As the party approached the tree, they were surprised to hear someone call out, “Hold! Come no farther!”

  The figure was impossible to see at first, clothed a
s it was all in green. A hood covered its face, and it was perched on one of the lower branches.

  Bram called, “Good day! We mean you no harm!”

  “Good day to you. Please leave me in peace. I wish no harm to befall you as well, but it will if you stay here,” the figure responded.

  Mirak took a step closer to get a better look. The figure turned toward her. “You were warned. Will you never listen? You all seek the same thing, and I am left to watch you fail.”

  Gerontius peered at the figure. “Show yourself, dear one. I sense you are of my people.”

  The figure shyly lowered its hood and was revealed to indeed be a young elf, with long blond hair and icy blue eyes. He looked at Gerontius. “You are exceedingly lovely and fair of face, as pale as the snows of Nivis.” He said this as if he were stating a fact, like “The sky is blue.”

  “How do you know of the snows of Nivis?” asked Torgrim.

  “The others who have come before you have spoken of it. So many others…,” the elfling murmured.

  “I am Gerontius Darksbane, of the FaerieField woodland people,” the wizard said.

  “They will mourn your passing,” said the elf boy as he turned away.

  “Where are you from?” asked Mirak.

  “Where indeed?” The elf smiled.

  Jandia grunted and raised her sword. “Enough riddles.”

  Gerontius raised his hand to stay her, and took a step closer. “Have you been enchanted? Has someone put you on this island?”

  The boy looked the wizard full in the face. “I came here by choice, and I believe I will never leave.”

  “We can help you,” Torgrim said. “I am a healer, a cleric of the Orach’T’char.”

  “I need no healing,” the boy said simply. “And I beg you once again, come no farther, on pain of death.”

  Jandia squared her shoulders. “I see nothing to fear. I feel you wish to keep us from reaching that which we desire.”

  She stepped forward.

  There was a shaking from the ground, and before their eyes, the ferns surrounding the tree rose from the earth, changing, becoming arms, each with a sword attached. They waved about in arcs, hundreds of them. There were swords of all kinds, from giant broadswords to curved blades from faraway lands. They created an impenetrable barrier between the youth and the adventurers.

  “So this is the Tree of Swords?” asked Bram. “What enchantment have you done?”

  “I have done nothing!” the boy replied. “The tree protects itself. These are all that is left of the scores of seekers who have come before you. As they fall to the tree’s weapons, they join the rest in her protection.”

  Gerontius looked in his spellbook, turning the pages furiously.

  Torgrim approached him. “Surely there is something that can be used to thwart this cursed demon tree.”

  The wizard shook his head. “It is a deep magic. I am not familiar with it.”

  Mirak touched his arm. “Perhaps there is a way that is not found in books.”

  Gerontius thought for a moment, then nodded. He turned to the boy. “You feel you have a secret no one knows. You are different.”

  The swords slowed. The boy sat still, regarding the wizard. “You can see this?”

  “You think the sharp swords that imprison you are from the tree.”

  “I know they are,” insisted the youth.

  “And I know they are not,” said the wizard. “Many of us have trees like this of our own. They are of our own creation. Your fear has made the swords. In your soul, you feel they protect you.”

  “What you say may be true, but I need them!” the boy cried out.

  “You do not wish to escape this tree?”

  “With all my heart,” said the boy grimly. “But it cannot be.”

  “It is in your power to do so,” said Gerontius as he stepped forward.

  “Come no closer!” the boy begged. “I have no wish for you to die!”

  “I shall not die,” Gerontius said simply. “You will not let me.”

  The wizard stepped directly into the path of the whirling blades, his arms raised.

  Mirak screamed and hid her face.

  A giant arm pulled back a mighty battle-ax. It arced through the sky.

  “We see you as you are, and that you are good,” the wizard said.

  The blade passed through him harmlessly, fading away with the others.

  The meadow under the giant tree was quiet, save for the sobbing of the young boy. He crumpled and fell from the tree. Gerontius ran to him and scooped him up. He then looked around and called to the others.

  “There! In the branches! There is something glowing!”

  They joined him at the bottom of the tree. High above, they could clearly see a glowing branch.

  Bram nodded. “I can climb.”

  Jandia peered up. From the branch where the boy had sat, all the way to the higher reaches, where the glowing prize awaited them, there were no branches. “That may well be, but there is no purchase.”

  Mirak pulled four arrows from her quiver. “ ’Tis a good thing you are so light, Halfling. Perhaps I can create a ladder where there is none.”

  “Excellent thought, good bard!” exclaimed Bram. “If you would start at that spot where the knot is?” He indicated a place high above them.

  The arrows found their marks, going deep into the tree, leaving enough for the nimble rogue to reach the desired branch.

  Jandia shook her head. “You can climb branches, and you can climb arrows, but the first foothold is too far away. How do you propose to reach it?”

  “This is not something I thought I would ever say to you,” said Bram, bowing to her, “but would you hurl me up there?”

  Jandia laughed and bowed back. “How often I have wished to do this! And now I can do it to further our cause, instead of simply to stop your tongue.”

  She grabbed him as if he were a child and hoisted him to her shoulder.

  Torgrim closed his eyes and said a prayer to help her aim.

  With a grunt, she hurled the halfling up. He stretched, and with a lunge grabbed on to the first arrow. It held.

  “We make a great team, eh?” he called down.

  “Save your breath and get the blasted branch!” Torgrim yelled back.

  As Bram carefully made his way up the tree, Gerontius was gazing at the boy in his arms.

  The boy looked up at him. “I am Samiel,” he said, and smiled.

  “Welcome to the world, young Master Samiel,” said Gerontius, and leaned down to kiss him on both cheeks, the traditional elvish greeting.

  “I do not think I can leave this place yet,” said Samiel.

  “You will leave it when you are ready,” replied the older elf. “Some of us leave our forests when we are young; others must wait until they know themselves better.”

  Samiel nodded. There was a shout from the branches. Bram could be seen carefully edging his way along the large branch underneath the one that glowed. Tentatively he reached out and grabbed it with a cry of triumph.

  As he did so, the branch under his feet gave way and he hurtled toward the ground.

  Gerontius turned, and with a sharp gesture, the air around the halfling seemed to grow heavy and slow his fall. He began to drift downward, finally landing in Jandia’s surprised arms.

  “Why, my barbarian beauty, I had no idea of your feelings for me!” Bram laughed. “And see what I have—Ow!”

  Jandia had dropped him on the ground. Bram rubbed his backside with one hand and held out his prize with the other.

  It was no ordinary branch. It was the handle of a scepter, fashioned out of wood in the shape of a serpent.

  “But what of our clue?” asked Torgrim.

  Mirak regarded Gerontius. “I seem to recall
the comparison young Samiel made of our wizard friend’s pale complexion.”

  When Cammi had finished, the reaction was mixed. Persephone and Jojo thought it was incredible.

  Noel? Less so. “Yeah, I guess the tree stuff was cool, but that kissing stuff was kinda mushy.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have put that in,” said Cammi, pulling down his baseball cap and slumping down onto the floor.

  “Don’t listen to him. He is a loser,” pronounced Persephone, fixing Noel with a killing look.

  Cammi sighed. “No, he’s right. I should have had more fighting, like Jojo.”

  Ralph hated this part, where someone seemed to always need to put down the other’s attempt. “That’s silly, Cammi. You did great. It was…very you.”

  “Yeah, that’s for sure,” said Noel. “It had you all over it.”

  Jojo smacked Noel on the arm. “He’s just jealous because you’re a better game master.”

  “He wishes,” muttered Noel.

  Ralph was glad he didn’t have to follow Cammi. He handed the dice ceremoniously to Persephone, who looked like she’d won an award or something.

  Persephone let him off the hook. “I promise that next week will be a story no one will ever forget.”

  Cammi laid his head on her shoulder. “I can’t wait.”

  THE BARD AND THE MINSTREL

  Had there ever been a world without snow? The climb had been so long, wading through drifts that came up to the halfling’s thighs, that try as he might, Bram could not remember what it was like to see sunshine and clear skies. Was it only yesterday that they had arrived on Nivis, sent here by the words spoken by Samiel of Gerontius’s snowy white face?

  “Curse that elfling! I’d rather break my neck than perish out here in some frozen waste,” Bram muttered. The wind howled so loudly, he could have screamed it, and no one would have heard.

  Mirak had been trying to keep up their spirits by singing “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Grog on the Wall.”

  “By the gods, I have had enough of this song,” Jandia bellowed over the winds that whirled about them. “If you do not cease, I shall hurl myself off this accursed mountain.”