Sword of Air
Episode XXV
Mummy’s on Fire!
As the dust clears, our doughty explorers gulp down some healing potions and make their way
silently down into the stifling dark of the musty tomb.
“Ouch!” says Mherren loudly as he bumps his head on the cut-stone ceiling.
Zimlok conjures light on the end of his staff, and the four heroes (along with their trusty huladancing Quasit) creep through a narrow passage and down some steps into a lower vault. Here,
Lightstrike spots some glyphs carved into the walls. Facing each other are two crudely chiselled
diagrams of flaming skulls.
“I bet these are wards,” says Mherren. “They’ll probably set us on fire or something if we move
past them.”
“I’ll see what happens if I send my mage hand through,” volunteers Lightstrike, and the ethereal
hand passes the wards without effect.
“Oh, it’s probably fine,” says Zimlok, and swaggers confidently through… to find himself
immediately engulfed in fire.
Haji Baba shakes her head in despair as Zimlok hops about yelping, singed and smoking, and
patting himself down frantically to put out the flames.
His shield overhead, Mherren dives through, triggering the ward but emerging unscathed on the
other side. He slides the shield back through and Lightstrike does the same, Haji Baba clinging to
his back like a tiny jockey.
They delve further into the catacomb, finding a small chamber at the bottom of another set of
stairs. In the centre is a grand-looking stone sarcophagus, highly decorated with sigils and patterns.
Some faded text reads: We salute Duorik Ironside, who mobilised the
very earth of the land against the Giants. Behind this centrepiece,
Lightstrike finds a niche in which stands a large, untarnished metal box, hammered and engraved
with intricate, geometric designs.
In niches set into the walls are two more
sarcophagi, smaller and plainer than the
first. Haji Baba, having donned her cloak
of Elvenkind, casts a spell to detect magic,
and finds a necromantic glow coming
from the caskets, and a sense of
elemental magic emanating from the
chest and main sarcophagus.
The companions spend some
considerable time considering their next
course of action, until Mherren’s
impatience and curiosity overcome him
and he heaves at the lid of one of the smaller coffins.
Slightly embarrassingly, he strains a muscle, and so
checks his stance and pushes again.
This time the lid budges, and a purple mist seeps out.
Before Mherren can react, it coheres into the form of
a hissing Spectre that reaches out to grasp him, but it
is distracted as Lightstrike thrusts with his rapier,
causing it to yowl in pain as he momentarily severs its
incorporeal form. Mherren, gathering his wits, sends
a blast of Eldritch energy into its chest, blowing a
hole in its torso which immediately reforms. Zimlok
cunningly sets a magical snare baiting it with an
illusory assassin, and then swings wildly at the thing
with his staff, but it is Haji Baba who finally
vanquishes the evil spirit with a power stance and a
peal of Druidic thunder, knocking it back into the
wall where it vaporises into nothingness.
Just as our companions are catching their breath, an ominous groaning and grinding of stone on
stone fills the chamber. They look around in horror to see an animated corpse, clad in rotting
bandages and a shining golden headdress, clamber out and shamble towards them.
“Looters! Thieves! You desecrate this holy tomb! Now you die!” it rasps.
“Um, we just… er… we mean no…” starts Lightstrike, but as the Dwarf Mummy’s blackened
nails reach out for Mherren, he abandons reasoning with the thing and attempts to blast it with
two rays of frost. But his spells fizzle.
Zimlok the Lightbringer sends a wave of hideous laughter to invade the Mummy’s time-ravaged mind,
but the thing pays no heed. Next, Zimlok clenches his fist heroically and attempts to smite the
monster with his shocking grasp, but only manages to electrocute himself as the spell backfires.
He and Lightstrike exchange glances. Is their magic somehow suppressed in this ancient crypt?
But there is no time for questions, as another Spectre emerges and coalesces from the other niche.
Mherren deals it a crippling blow with his morningstar, sending the thing reeling for a second, but
it only gathers itself and comes at them again.
The Mummy, staggering unaffected through Zimlok’s snare, summons a whirlwind of sand that fills
the tomb and blinds all but Haji Baba, who just manages to pull down her magic swimming goggles
of keen sight in the nick of time.
The heroes are becoming desperate. They’re throwing everything they have at this plague-ridden
monstrosity, and yet it relentlessly continues to lumber jerkily towards them. Then the thing that
was Duorik Ironside swings at Zimlok with its rotting fist and glowers at him with its dreadful glare.
Zimlok shakes off the wave of fear that courses up his spine, and is lucky to avoid contracting
mummy rot from its blackened claws, but nevertheless he is sorely wounded. Another blow like that
could finish him off! He gulps at the notion of being turned into roadkill.
Mherren and Haji Baba look at each other helplessly. It seems they are destined to die in this
forsaken tomb. But Lightstrike, astute and resourceful rogue that he is, employs his true strike to
discern the monster’s weaknesses.
“Fire!” he yells. “Hit it with fire!”
Without skipping a beat, Haji Baba blows across a leaf of sumac to conjure a flaming blade, and
plunges it into the Mummy, which screams in agony and is set ablaze. Mherren blasts it with jets
of magical fire from his burning hands, and in an almighty conflagration it is reduced to cinders with
a final, bloodcurdling howl.
Zimlok, grimacing with pain, sets Jim’s butt firmly against his shoulder, and lets a quarrel fly at the
final Spectre. The bolt clanks against the wall behind it, and for a split second it appears to have
had no effect, but then the wraith screeches with frustration, writhes in ever-decreasing circles,
and finally evaporates. Ha! thinks Zimlok to himself. Once again Zimlok the Lightbringer single-handedly
dispatch his foe!
All is still in Duorik’s tomb. All is quiet except for the ragged
breaths of the four adventurers and the sound of Zimlok
wincing and noisily glugging down another healing potion.
Once they have recovered, they gently relieve Duorik of his
expensive-looking headdress, which glistens with gold and
is set with an impressive stone of amber, and then they begin
to explore the empty sarcophagi. Haji Baba finds seven large
pearls and a glistening blue sapphire nestled inside a box that
is filled with gold coins. Mherren uncovers two hundred old
platinum pieces stamped with crossed hammers, and a
crumbling leather sack of gold pieces.
Lightstrike carefully manipulates the lock of the metal box
and uses mage hand to prize it open, as he, Mherren and Haji
Baba hide behind Gobchuck’s shield. Zimlok, his wounds
magically closed, stands with legs splayed and hands on hips, a look of grim defiance upon his
beaky face as the lid is tentatively lifted.
And…
Nothing happens. It is not trapped, at least not any more, and within Lightstrike finds a small
amphora of oil decorated with tornadoes of flame and embossed script that seems to refer to
Id…gog. But that is all that is legible. Amongst a pile of gold coins he finds a scroll, which
Mherren manages to translate. It reads:
"In the end, Duorik Ironside, Earthraiser &
Giant-slayer, was bound to fire. He doused his
own corpse in witching oil and set himself ablaze so
that none should stand in his path and live, and lo, all
turned to ashes before his whirlwind of elemental
flame. But he did not perish.
"And so he took up
the Tongue of Idu Maagog the Titan.
Deeply it drank the blood of its enemies, and
Duorik grew strong like a giant, and all shrank and
burned before his wrath. “Aithinddé ! ” he spake, &
the…"
But here the parchment is torn and illegible.
From a safe distance, Zimlok nobly directs Mherren to examine Duorik’s
sarcophagus. Inside is an elaborate casket, covered with gold and runes, its
head made to resemble the golden headdress. Next to the coffin are six
slender javelins wrapped in rotted cloth, which seem to hum with magical
energy. There is more gold, too, and a light bronze shield, hammered so
smooth that, once Mherren blows the dust away, it acts as an almost
perfect mirror.
He spends a little while admiring his rugged Orcish looks, before turning
his attention to the casket itself. Within is a set of tablets in which is
chiselled an archaic cuneiform script. But it resembles Dwarfish
sufficiently for Mherren to read: it is Duorik’s spell book, containing mould
earth, magic stone, earth tremor, Maximillian’s earthen grasp, erupting earth and, the
pièce de resistance: Melf’s minute meteors. He hands them to Zimlok, who
greedily tucks them away in his cloak of many pockets to transcribe them later
into his spell book.
Two more items lie within the casket; no doubt these are no
less than the legendary weapons of Duorik the Geomancer,
Hero of Hvela, Giant-killer and Dragonslayer. (Yes, that
certainly does have a nice ring to it, thinks Zimlok dreamily as he
imagines himself scything through great Wyrms and Giants
like a whirling Bird-dervish of Justice.)
First, a hefty bronze Warhammer, set with runes and bearing
the inscription: Bouldir flies and fells the
mighty. To dwarfish hands he
returns fast and true.
And lastly among Duorik’s hoard, a perfectly-balanced short
sword with a beautiful decorative hilt and a wickedly sharp
blade that is engraved with an elegant motif of long, coiling
tongues of flame.
The explorers are torn between resting and investigating the
nature of these two ancient weapons, along with the cask of
oil and the strangely-thrumming javelins, for Zimlok is
absolutely certain he would be able to ascertain their magical
natures, given a little time and concentration, when suddenly
they hear the faint slap of several pairs of bare feet on the
stone steps outside the tomb.
After a moment of careful consideration, the heroes dive headlong into the sarcophagi.
“Reckon we’ve got us some pilferers,” comes a voice from down the hall.
“You think so, Sarge?”
“Yes, Roy. I’m certain of it. Plunderers, no doubt about it. See ‘ow the lid to the crypt was ajar, an’
all the dust was disturbed?”
“Yes, Sarge?”
“And did you see the footprints goin’ down the steps? And the bloated corpse of that frog monster
outside?”
“Yes, Sarge?”
“And did you see ‘ow the ‘ole cavern was collapsed in like there’s been a big fight or summit?”
“Yes, Sarge!”
“Well, that’s what gave me a clue, you see.”
“Coo, Sarge. You are clever!”
“That’s why I’m the Sarge, Roy. And why you
ain’t. Chief Slibbenorbin knows a clever un when
‘e sees un. And when ‘e saw ol’ Eberneb ‘e must
‘ave thought: That one’s a clever un, that un.
Good at detectorin an’ such. That un’ll go far.”
“Ooh, an’ we ‘ave come quite far, ‘aven’t we,
Sarge! We’ve come all the way from the
Neblinhala to these ol’ Dwarven crypts!”
“Not that kind of far, Roy.”
“Ouch! What was that for, Sarge?”
“That was for yer own good, Roy.”
“Thank you, Sarge.”
“Nah. Did you collect the ashes an’ crystals like
I told you?”
“Yes, Sarge. Them’s the ashes an’ crystals we offer to the frog monsters, ain’t it, Sarge?”
“No, Roy. We offer fishes to the frog monsters. Keeps ‘em from gnoshin’ gnomes fer dinner. The
ashes are what keep the wards intact.”
“Why do we want them intact, Sarge?”
“We don’t, Roy. Loofah’s bin studyin’ magicks – like what the Elves do. ‘E’s gonna try an
hexpirrimunt.”
“Ouch! Why’d you do that, Sarge?”
“For your own good, Roy.”
“Oh. Thank you, Sarge.”
“Nah, scatter the crystals like Loofah’s showin’ yer. Mix the ashes with some spittle an’ smear it
on them flamin’ skulls, there’s a good Roy. Loofah, do yer thing.”
Another voice: “Yes, Sarge. Ahem. [Here follows a distinctly unconvincing pseudomagical incantation.]”
“An’ now, on you go through, Roy.”
Roy: “Very good, Sarge.”
“…”
“I’m okay, Sarge.”
“Right. On we go, boys.”
In their coffins, our heroes hold their breath.
“This one, Sarge?”
Mherren, wedged tight in Duorik’s casket, sees a blue-faced little humanoid poke his generously proportioned nose over the lip of the sarcophagus. If I stay completely still, they’ll not see me, he thinks
with infallible Half-Orcish logic.
Another face peers in: “Yeah, that’s definitely one of ‘em. Keep lookin’, boys.”
Mherren gestures to command the creature, but before the spell can take effect it realises what he’s
doing and hurriedly closes the coffin lid.
“They’ve got magicks. Watch out!”
Moving swiftly to Plan B, Mherren sends Viper on a reconnaissance mission, with the briefing to
shut them all inside the crypt if things go pear-shaped. Not questioning the soundness of this
dubious plan, the Quasit turns invisible and sets out through the crypt. He navigates through the
legs of a dozen of these subterranean Gnomes, and finds another half-dozen or so on guard and
brandishing spears at the entrance.
As another Gnome peers into Lightstrike’s coffin, the nimble trickster transforms into a leopard,
snarls menacingly in its face, and leaps past it to parkour his way over, under and around the others,
swerving and bounding and bolting for the exit. But he is flagged down en route by Viper, and so
narrowly avoids being skewered and turned into a Gnome’s kebab.
Meanwhile Zimlok, who has shrunk vampire-like into a dark corner, realises the game is up and
steps out from the shadows.
“’Oo are yoo?” says the Gnomish leader.
“I am Zimlok the Lightbringer, powerful sorcerer and illusionist without compare,” declares
Zimlok histrionically. “Who, might I ask, are you?”
“Well, we’re Gnomes, ain’t we! Svirfneblin of the Neblinhala, to be precise. And I am Eberneb,
Sergeant-in-Chief for none other than Chief Slibbenorbin ‘imself. What you doin’ down ‘ere, then?
Lurkin’ an’ hiding in the shadows? Up to no good, I’d wager. Eh, boys? Lootin’ an’ pilferin’, I’d
wager. That right, boys?”
Zimlok stammers, his façade quickly crumbling. “No… no… That’s not it… We, er… erm…”
Haji Baba the Grand now emerges grandly from her own sarcophagus, dusting down her cloak of
Elvenkind and surveying the scene of twelve little bluish Gnomes all crowded round Zimlok and
prodding him with their pointy sticks.
“How dare you!” she bellows, descending regally from her musty niche. She leers forwards and
pokes the one called Eberneb sharply in the ribs. “We are not thieves! We are thief-hunters, tracking
down a pair of lowly graverobbers whom we followed to this tomb. We nearly lost our lives to the
Elemental Planes in a devilish acid trap, dealt with some horrible tentacled toad monster, narrowly
avoided being crushed by a cave-in, were beset by unspeakable things in this very tomb, and had
almost caught our foes, being as we were in the process of thoroughly checking out these empty
sarcophagi, when you so rudely interrupted and let one of them escape!”
Rather taken aback by this aggressive onslaught of shirtiness, Sergeant Eberneb backs away and
convenes his Gnomes in a huddle. After a frantic exchange of whispers, he steps forwards, his
chest thrust out, but with an expression of poorly-disguised uncertainty on his face as he looks up
at Haji Baba with all the dignity he can muster.
“We ‘ave decided to let you live, this once. And we will take you as our captives to face the
judgement of our Supreme Leader Slibbenorbin. And…” He leans in clandestinely, points to
Duorik’s sarcophagus and whispers hoarsely, “One of ‘em’s in there.”
“Let me deal with this,” says Zimlok, stepping up to the coffin in which Mherren is wedged. “Aha!
We have caught you red-handed, thief!” he says loudly. He gives Mherren a wink as he
melodramatically pretends to cast a spell of command upon his companion. “I command thee to get
out of there and come with us, for you are now our prisoner! And also their prisoner, because we
are also their prisoners, and you are our prisoner, and therefore also theirs. But mostly you are our
prisoner, so, um, do as I say.”
Mherren ham-acts being hypnotised and climbs with difficulty from his hiding place. “I am now
your prisoner, and also theirs, but mostly yours,” he repeats, trance-like, and he telepathically
messages to Lightstrike, who is just being gnomehandled into the chamber, to follow suit.
The Wereleopard allows his four feet to be bound and is unceremoniously carted up the stairs by
twelve straining Gnomes. “Ow. Ow. Ow,” he miaows as his head hits each step.
“This way, prisoners,” says Eberneb, and begins to lead them out of the crypt and down the
passageway that Haji Baba had begun
to explore in mouse form before they
fought the giant frog-monster.
“This way, is it?” says the Druid as she
pushes past a wide-eyed but
speechless Eberneb, and sets forth
confidently through labyrinthine
tunnels, lucking her way at every
junction until finally they all emerge at
the base of a deep underground cleft:
the rift of the Neblinhala.
The crevasse is carved out with little firelit dwellings and strung with rickety rope bridges, which
Haji Baba haughtily leads her Gnomish captors across, weaving back and forth, with Zimlok and
a trussed up Lightstrike and Mherren in tow, as dusky-blue little Svirfneblin faces peer out in awe
and wonder at the sight of surface-dwellers in their hidden realm.
Viper, still unnoticed, follows on at a safe distance…
*
Will out intrepid heroes be able to talk their way out of an audience with Chief Slibbenorbin?
What magical treasures have they found in the tomb of Duorik Ironside?
Are they still in time to find and rescue Elovyn Sorrowsong? Or has the trail gone cold?
And will Zimlok finally get to have a nap?
Find out next time in another legendary episode of…
Ye Sworde of Ayre!
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