The Folly of Askavar

Chapter Nine

(Editorial note - herein, the verb tense of the story changes from past to present. I apologize if anybody finds that jarring. The tale, as originally gamed and then compiled into narrative form, was in the present tense, and I don’t have the time to keep altering it going forward. Again, apologies.)

(art by Romy Jones)

The better part of a night and a day is spent trying to heal injuries from the fight with the spider. Rindol lends his own healing magic to the cause, and then provides Amra and her friends with the location to the library deeper in the ruins. Rubble is cleared to provide a way towards the library, which Rindol hopes will hold records that explain the nature of the mists....

The queen spider hasn’t been seen since the previous fight. With one more night spent resting, praying, and recovering spells, finally it’s time to try to reach the library. “I’ll guard our -- can it be a camp if it’s indoors? -- camp,” Rindol offers, still lurching about on his crutch. “But don’t forget to retrieve me if you find a way out.”

“Of course, master Rindol,” Amra said. “We won’t be long.”

“We’re running short of food, so I hope you’re right,” Rindol agrees. “Moradin be with you all.”

“And the Seldarine watch over you.” Amra smiles slightly and then turns towards the path to the library.

Imoen, Firnous, and Melly follow after, major wounds sealed by magic but minor scuffs, scrapes, and bruises still afflicting them as healing magic has been in great demand. The path through the rubble is at first narrow and tight, with barely cleared tunnels burrowing through fallen stone....

Eventually, after a rough time on hands and knees, the area of fallen ceiling is passed, and from then on, the corridors are wider and more passable. Rindol’s directions to the library are accurate, and a great arch opens upon a large chamber of dusty shelves and tables.

Amra can’t help but sigh contentedly at this sign of a true civilization. Then, sword drawn, she steps through the archway and looks around with her eyes and her hidden sense.

A moment of concentration reveals nothing overtly malefic in the vicinity. From Rindol’s tales, the human inhabitants of the ruined city were at war with the invading Calishites, another human nation, and while political conflict has certainly taken its toll, at least in the library, nothing more sinister seems to be involved.

“There’s a lot here,” Imoen comments, taking note of the room’s contents in more mundane fashion.

“It’s okay, it seems,” Amra tells the humans. “We’ll split up. If you find anything you can’t read, show me or Imoen.”

“Won’t take me long,” Firnous mutters, but Melly punches him in the shoulder, as if to say, “Straighten up!”

So the group splits, scattering among the shelves to review the torn scrolls and dog-eared tomes that were apparently abandoned when the city fell. Amra, her elven learning coming into play, is the first to find something potentially useful: a detailed chronicle of the last days of the city during its siege.

“Hm.” Amra turns to the end and works back.

The final days of the record paint an unusual picture. The city’s inhabitants managed to hold off the Calishites, but they were forced to abandon their city nonetheless. The root of the problem, not surprisingly, seems to be magic run amok, specifically the magic of the mists.

Amra calls the others over as she continues to peruse.

Imoen leans over Amra’s shoulder to read along with her. Melly and Firnous keep close more out of loyalty -- and, one suspects, in Firnous’ case, a degree of boredom....

The chronicle records that the mists were a desperate attempt by the city-dwellers to befuddle the besiegers and shield the city from their attacks. Wizards who dwelt in the city created an enchanted artifact to swathe the city in impenetrable, otherworldly mists....

But then, for some reason unknown to the author, the mists’ behavior slipped from the control of the wizards, randomly appearing and disappearing, and taking parts of the city -- at least temporarily -- with them.

“Imoen, what do you make of it? Perhaps they called on a plane best left undisturbed?”

Imoen draws on what lore she remembers from her time at Candlekeep. “It could be. They may have tapped into forces too strong to control. Or there may have been a mistake in the making of the artifact.” ...

“And they almost won,” Imoen said sadly. “The invaders gave up, unable to make progress with siege. But then the mists broke loose, and the inhabitants had to flee or be trapped--“ ”Like us,” Firnous comments.” “--like us,” Imoen agrees.

Melly, listening attentively, bites her lip.

“It was centuries ago. The mists are weaker now,” Amra said confidently.

“Not weak enough,” Firnous said. “You nearly froze your fingers off trying to get out.”

“I was unprepared and ignorant.”

Melly shifts position nervously.

“Trust me. I’ve gotten out of more hazardous situations,” Amra said as she continues to study the book. “We need to learn more about the artifact.”

“Maybe the chronicle tells where it was installed. I would think it has to still be here,” Imoen suggests, “since the mists are still here.”

“Indeed.” Amra looks through the book’s early sections for more information.

Further study reveals a name -- the Chamber of Alberik – and more searching of the shelves uncovers a plan of the building complex, providing a location. It’s a good distance away through the massive city structures, in an area as yet unvisited by Amra or her friends.

“Perfect.” Amra shows her discovery.

“I think we can get there from here,” Imoen said. “Do we go back for Rindol, or press on without him?”

“We should tell him, at the very least.”

As Amra and Imoen are conversing, from somewhere out of sight in the stacks, Melly’s voice sounds. “She looks like Amra!” “Quit wasting time!” Firnous replies quickly.

Amra looks up at that, a slightly puzzled frown on her face.

“What’s she talking about?” Imoen asks Amra, also puzzled.

“I don’t know.” Amra gets up and heads towards the sound of their voices.

“She does!” Melly is insisting, pointing to something large and rectangular fallen on the floor.

Amra walks over and looks down at the large and rectangular object.

It’s an old and faded painting, in an unfamiliar human style. In the background, there are buildings like those of the ruins, except pictured in their heyday. A group of well-dressed humans is meeting or welcoming a group of elves, including a female elven figure that Melly thinks looks like Amra (in as much as she’s also female and an elf).

Amra, however, notices something else interesting on the banners of the elven party: an emblem of a sun dawning over the boughs of a tree in full-leaf. The design is a crest of the ancient elven kingdom of Askavar.

“I don’t believe she’s related, although elven genealogy is a tangled web,” Amra tells Melly. “But look here, you found something interesting. Upon the blue banner, that’s the crest of Askavar. It was an elven kingdom along the Sword Coast.”

“Hadarlas told me about it,” Firnous said. “It was abandoned when the elves all went away -- well, you didn’t go. But the others.”

Melly punches Firnous again.

“The Retreat, yes,” Amra said, unable to hide a hint of distaste at that particular folly. “I wonder...” She looks more closely at the garb of the elves in the picture, trying to spot any sign of the arcane there.

There are a couple of elves in the group that are equipped as wizards, but no more than there are obvious warriors and nobles in the group....

“Why are they showing such deference to a human?” Imoen asks, pointing. For a solitary female figure at the head of the elves’ delegation is missing telltale pointed ears. And yet the elves all seem to give her a favored place at their head.

“That is interesting.” Amra studies the round-eared figure.

In the painting, despite the pigments’ long fading, there is still something striking about the woman leading the elves of Askavar. It’s not clear what role she plays precisely, but she is portrayed as a person respected by both city-dwellers and elves.

“I wonder if she’s an archmage. Or possibly a goddess?”

“She’s not armored,” Imoen notes, nodding along with Amra. “She doesn’t seem to be the warrior-queen type.”

“There ought to be captions for these things,” Firnous summarily decides.

Amra looks around for any sign of where the painting once hung, or if there are any others.

This seems to be the only painting in evidence, but Amra does spot something else: elven boot-prints, like those of Hadarlas found earlier, in the dust of the library floor. It seems Hadarlas was here, and may in fact have been the one who extricated the painting from its point of abandonment and laid it out on the floor in full view.

“Pity he didn’t leave behind his journal,” Amra said. She puts the painting up on a table to keep it safer from the elements and any other visitors. “Well, nothing to be done. We should go in search of the Chamber of Alberik...”

Amra and company retrace their steps back through the rubble to share their discoveries with Rindol. And Rindol, it seems, has counsel to share with them.

Amra respectfully takes a seat across from him.

Rindol waits to hear out the findings in the library. When he learns that further explorations through the ruins are upcoming, he has advice specifically for Amra. “You told me that in that last fight, you had trouble wounding the big spider with your blade. And I told you that I saw your elf friend Hadarlas bless his weapon before he attacked the spider....”

Amra nods. “Is it as simple as that?” she asks, chagrined at her lapse.

“Well, it seemed to work for the moon elf. But I had another thought, too.”

“Oh?”

“You know, I imagine, that undead creatures are sometimes vulnerable to the positive energy that the gods and goddesses use to heal?”

“So it is.”

“These spiders are not simple zombies or skeletons. Their method of reanimating the dead is different, I think. But yet, if the spider is vulnerable to a blade wielded for righteousness, it might also fall to a paladin’s healing.”

Amra smiles beatifically. “We shall see soon enough, I suspect. Thank you, master Rindol. But we have news of our own.”

“Tell me all that you found.”

Amra does so, starting with the chronicle and concluding with the painting.

Rindol sighs. “It would be ironic if your friend entered here merely to look upon a painting, and all this trouble has arisen because of it. Our leader, Wulfgar, thought that Hadarlas was stealing riches or plumbing for some treasure, which is why we were sent to follow him. And in the end, perhaps all he wanted to do was see the library and that painting.”

“I think it likely. Some of my kindred would steal – for exalted reasons, of course,” she said with a roll of the eyes, “but I do not think Hadarlas is of that kind. At any rate, we have our own task to complete, and hopefully our path will cross with his.”

“If you can free us from these mists, I will tell Wulfgar what I have witnessed -- the tales of both Hadarlas’ aid to my people, and yours.”

“I’ll do my best.”

With a few moments spent to rest and recoup, once more the group (except for the lamed Rindol) crawls out through the rubble passage, this time veering off into the unseen territory where the Chamber of Alberik is said to lie....

It takes another three hours and several instances of retracing the path before the Chamber is near. Mercifully, only one swarm of the tiny spiders is seen, and this time, no animated corpses accompany them. The spiders are bypassed without major confrontation....

Finally, features of the architecture that match the plan found in the library indicate that the Chamber of Alberik is nearby. Amra is the first to feel that the corridor is getting warmer as the Chamber is approached.

Amra frowns a little. “A fire?” she asks quietly, once again seeking to detect nearby evil.

“Something’s doing it,” Imoen agrees, catching on to the temperature change with Amra’s warning. But Amra herself finds no hint of evil in the Chamber ahead.

Amra continues on, warned by the subtle temperature shift.

Amra and her companions press on. As they continue, Firnous spots scorch marks on the walls, black smears of soot or charcoal. The heat rises to become palpably unpleasant. Armor chafes, and the humans’ brows are beaded with swaet.

Amra turns to the others. “Wait here. I’ll go on ahead.”

“Are you sure?” Imoen asks. “Maybe the big spider’s having a roast.”

“Perhaps...”

“We’ll wait,” Firnous promises. And this time, he puts up a hand to catch Melly’s fist.

Amra smiles at the young lovebirds, then turns to Imoen. “I won’t be gone more than five minutes.”

Imoen nods her agreement, and Amra sets off. As she closes in on the Chamber, there are more black streaks on walls and floor, and there are even patches of stone that look rippled, as if the stone itself had melted and then subsequently cooled. And finally, just before a bend that should take her to the almost-searing entrance of the Chamber, Amra can hear a metallic clanking sound, along with movement.

Amra backs up two paces and murmurs a quiet prayer, running her finger down the blade of Iralenmaska as she does. Once the little ritual is done, she peeks around the corner.

The air is like an oven, blasting at her face. Ahead, a solitary being paces, of size like a dwarf, but body wreathed in flame. A brass kilt girds the creature’s waist, the metal plates clanking against one another as the being walks about. He wields -- for the creature is apparently male -- a heavy bronze-shod hammer.

Amra eyes him in surprise, and tries to figure out what he is doing before the heat gets overwhelming.

As Amra stands trying to identify the muscular, flame-shrouded man, he stops in his patrol and slowly turns, scanning the room thoroughly before his glance begins to turn towards the corridor from which Amra has entered.

Amra stays in, sword at her side and a placating smile on her face, which is beginning to blister a little.

The being’s eyes -- like bright coals -- fix on Amra. It voices a query in an unfamiliar language (although it sounds otherworldly, like something from the planes).

The heavy hammer comes up into a ready position.

Amra shakes her head and stays very still. “I don’t understand that language,” she said in Common (and repeats in Elven if he doesn’t respond).

The being stares at Amra for a moment, before it shifts to Common. Its voice is low, crackling and popping. Smoke vents from the being’s mouth as he speaks. “You are not of this city. Who are you?”

Amra bows respectfully. “Amra Amariya. Forgive my trespass. What is your name?”

Sparks flutter into the air, already rippling with heat, as the being speaks a name unpronounceable by mortals. “Why are you here?” he repeats.

“I am seeking another of my kind who was lost. Also, I’m trapped here,” she confesses. “I seek an artifact that may undo the curse upon this place.”

“You seek the Stone of Mists?”

“Yes.”

“My flamekin have it.”

“I see. To what end, if I may ask?”

“We, too, are trapped here.”

“Then perhaps we can work together.”

“I am not leader. I patrol. I guard the entrance against vermin. I cannot make alliance.”

“Can you take me to your leader, then?”

“Are you alone?”

“No.”

“Do not try to distract me so others can gain entrance.”

“They merely wait to see if this chamber was safe.”

“You must bring them. I can allow none to linger at the entrance.”

“I understand. Wait for a moment.” Amra bows again and backs away. She steps halfway around the corner and whistles.

Firnous calls back a response. “It hasn’t been five min-- OW!” Footsteps sound as feet go into motion, and before long, Imoen, Melly, and a bruised Firnous come up to marvel to at the metal-kilted fire being.

Amra introduces them to the fire creature. “My brave companions.”

The fire creature seems unimpressed. “Come,” it said flatly, and leads them into the Chamber of Alberik. Inside, the air is like a blast furnace. Melly keeps feeling her forehead to make sure her eyebrows haven’t been singed off. A cluster of flame-wreathed creatures, all male, surround a polished stone orb, set within a metallic tripod.

Amra eyes the fire-beings and then the orb itself.

“Why are intruders here?” one of the fire-beings (“Azers,” Imoen whispers helpfully) asks the guard. “They seek the Stone,” the guard replies, “for they too are trapped.” “If they do not lie,” said the interrogator.

“I am a blade-servant of Vandria Gilmadrith. I would never lie,” Amra said, bristling slightly. And blistering slightly. “We are all trapped here.”

“We are trapped for untold centuries,” the lead azer said. “We were summoned and bound to attack this city. Then the mists came, and we could not leave.”

“Then let us help you return to your home.”

The lead azer’s eyes flare into white heat. “YOU MAY NOT DESTROY THE STONE!” he thunders. Imoen throws her hand up over her face to shield herself against the blasting heat as he roars.

Amra eyes the leader passively. “I did not say that was my goal,” she said calmly.

“You must not harm the stone!” the azer leader insists. “We fear what would happen if its magic was dispersed.”

“I understand. My people tell lullabies about magic gone awry, you know. They are not pleasant.” Amra gestures at Imoen. “My companion is a wizard. Perhaps she can find a way to disperse the mists without harming the stone.”

Imoen steps close to Amra. “Look at them,” she whispers, nodding toward the other azers gathered around the Stone of Mists. “Their motions are repetitive. They keep trying the same thing over and over. It’s like they’re stuck.”

The leader seems to mull this over for a long moment. “You may approach. But we will stop you if you have lied.” To emphasize the point, several more hammers, along with a trio of metal-tipped spears, are brought into a ready posture.

Amra glances at the silent azers, then back at the leader. “Thank you.” She carefully steps closer to the Stone. “Be careful,” she murmurs to Imoen.

Firnous and Melly hang back. Perhaps having been sufficiently chastened, Firnous makes himself useful, interposing himself between Melly and the nearest azers -- an action she seems to find reassuring. Imoen motions Amra up beside her, as she gazes at the large stone orb, its dark surface veined like marble, and the metal band that secures it to the tripod....

An almost imperceptible veil of mists forms and dissipates constantly over the surface of the orb, mirroring in miniature the freezing mists that draw sections of the ruins into the otherworlds....

And then, Amra can see the azers’ problem. There perhaps was once writing on the surface of the metal band that wraps the orb, inscriptions or runes. But burning azer hands have blackened the band, cloaking it in a thick layer of ash and soot. The azers have no way of interacting it with it, without further searing the artifact. Their own fumbling efforts have kept them from progress for hundreds of years.

Amra looks to Imoen with a neutral expression, then holds a hand towards the orb and waits to see what Imoen things of her clear plan.

“It’s going to be very hot,” Imoen warns.

“No choice.”

Amra grabs hold of the orb...

The phantom mists are surprisingly frigid, stinging as Amra’s hand brushes them, much like the greater mists outside. But the metal setting burns. Amra’s hand blisters as she wipes away the accumulated soot and ash of centuries. She can feel welts raising on her fingertips as the metal and hot ash scald them....

But finally, the caked grime is cleansed from the metal, and carefully engraved sigils of magic power are uncovered. Amra’s hand is left red and throbbing, skin peeling away from her fingers, but she’s done something the azers have never been able to do.

Amra lets her burnt hand hang at her side and focuses on the sigils she uncovered.

“What do they mean?” she asks Imoen.

The inscribed runes don’t follow any alphabet that Amra has seen, but Imoen seems not to be totally mystified by them. “I think I can work these out, with a little time.” The azers, meanwhile, look on, stunned. A cracking murmur goes up from their throats....

“They’re like command words, but they must be touched in proper sequence. I’ve seen other artifacts that worked like this,” Imoen said. She lowers her voice. “The azers must have pressed blindly, unable to make sense of the engravings. That’s why the mists went random. They panicked, and probably kept the wizards from getting back into the chamber to set things right.”

Amra nods. “Can you decipher the sequence?”

“Gorion -- he was my mentor, before he... -- he had a theory that all the schools of magic once had languages of their own. He tried to recover what signs he thought might have been part of each. Some of these look similar.”

Amra smiles. “Interesting – I’ve never heard such a thing.”

“You could learn it, Amra. You’re plenty smart enough.”

“Yes or no, Imoen?” Firnous calls out impatiently.

“Yes!” she calls back. “Just let me work!”

Amra smiles at Imoen’s praise. “Thank you, I would like to try.”

“When we get somewhere where a book won’t catch fire, I’ll show you what I remember,” Imoen promises.

“Thank you.”

Hours pass. The azers refuse to let the company out of their sight while Imoen works, so everyone is trapped in Alberik’s chamber, nearly broiled by the radiant heat of the azers. Walls are too hot to lean on; floors too hot to sit on; heat seeps up painfully even through boot soles. And then, finally, as Firnous and Melly stagger and even Amra is weakened by the heat, Imoen announces, “I have it!”

“Thank the gods!”

“I mean, I think I do.”

Amra ignores that as she wipes the sweat from her face for the third time in a minute. “Do it.”

“All right.” Imoen bundles up her hand in a strip of cloth, not as convinced of her resistance to pain as was Amra. Even then, touching the sigils brings a wince to Imoen’s face, but as she touches them in sequence, they begin to light up with a cool blue glow. The pattern of mists shifts over the face of the stone orb, stabilizing and calming....

And then, with a final touch, the sigils fall dark, and the film of mist vanishes entirely from the surface of the stone.

“It worked, then?” Amra asks after a second or two.

“WE ARE RELEASED!” the lead azer thunders, and one by one, azers begin to vanish, returning to their home plane in great gouts of fire that seem to erupt upwards from the floor, as the magic that has held them trapped long past the fading of their binding is suddenly removed.

Amra moves to shield Imoen from any stray flames. “Farewell,” she said about a second or two too late.

Firnous pulls Melly to him, cradling her face in his chest, just as an azer standing next to her is transported home in a plume of searing flame.

“Not much on thanks, are they?” Imoen asks, as she leans back from a disappearing azer near her.

“Their ways are not ours,” Amra said diplomatically. “Very good work, Imoen.”

Even the leader disappears in a flare of light and heat, sending sparks showering through the chamber. At last, only the guard Amra first met is left. Fire licks at his feet, as he forces himself to stay. “I would help you if I could,” he begins.

Amra bows. “You have our thanks. Have you seen another elf in the recent past?”

The rising flame is up to his knees already, despite his efforts to suppress it. It crawls up his thighs, working upward to his chest, as the force of his native plane draws him homeward. “No. I have seen no cool ones like you for many years. But I would warn you.”

“Of?”

“Be on your guard when you leave the chamber.” Flame flickers before the azer’s eyes, clouding his view of Amra. “Vermin!” is the last word he gets out, before the flame consumes him and he vanishes a bright burst of light.

Amra raises a hand in a final salute, then sighs. “Be on guard,” she tells the others.

With the azers gone, already the chamber is a bit cooler, although the rock of walls, floor, and ceiling have soaked up the azers’ heat for ages. Firnous, heeding the cryptic message, steps quietly to the exit, stilling even his breath. For a moment, he sees and hears nothing. But then he turns, and mouths one silent word to Amra...

“Spider.”