choose your own adventure, episode 18a

You decide to distract Gwenaelle, hoping that Hamus can land a telling blow with his massive axe.

“Then stand fast and fight, vile creature of darkness!” you boom, your mind scrounging up old challenges from the ancient poetry of Old Earth your tutors read to you as a boy. “In the name of my father, the High King, and the Most High God I cast my despite your teeth. Draw weapons, you wicked spawn of hell, or slink back into the shadows and let all me know you as the craven that you are.”

Gwenaelle laughs merrily, as if you have just told a grand joke, and she would sound exactly likely an amused girl if not for the clicking of her pincers. “Oh, how funny! How Mother shall laugh when I tell her.” She steps closer to you with the sinuous grace of a hunting serpent, her talon-tipped fingers flexing. “Perhaps I shall turn your head into a puppet, and make it repeat that silly little speech over and…”

Hamus roars and brings his axe whistling down for the spiderling. Gwenaelle whirls with a hiss, her foot slamming into his gut, and Hamus goes down with a wheeze. You lunge, and Heartwarden draws a bloody line across Gwenaelle’s hip. She snarls in fury and backhands you, and the sheer power in her thin arm knocks you back a step. The spiderling stalks after you, raising her clawed hands for a killing blow.

Hamus roars again, his face the color of old wine, and sweeps his axe before him.

Gwenaelle’s head jumps off her shoulders in a spray of black ichor and hits the ground, the pincers sinking into the dirt. The body jerks forward a few more steps and collapses, the black slime pooling at your feet.

Hamus might be old and fat, but he’s clearly not weak.

You hear coughing, and see Ulacht and Sir Thomas get to their feet, recovering from Gwenaelle’s stunning blows.

Hamus looks at his son and sighs.

“What a blind fool I have been,” he says, gesturing with the axe. “I have been acting like a besotted boy, all while this…this creature preys upon my folk.”

“You may not have had any choice in the matter,” you say. “The venom of a spiderling can induce…odd effects, to be sure.”

“Forgive me, my son,” says Hamus. “For too long I neglected your counsel. And I beg your forgiveness as well, headman. The villages of Victrix and Rzoldur have dwelled in peace since the defeat of the Frostborn, and my folly almost destroyed that.”

Ulacht growls. “The spawn of the urdmordar almost destroyed us, knight. They were long our masters, long before the High King ever came from Old Earth. And now that we are free, they will try to slay us.”

“Ulacht is right, father,” says Thomas.

“Regardless,” says Hamus, “the fault is mine…”

“I suggest, sir knight,” you say, “that you shut up, and we proceed back into Victrix. The villagers need our help.”

Hamus blinked at you, and sighs. “You are a cheeky young fellow, but I deserve much worse. And without you, this would have been far bloodier. Lead on.”

You lead Hamus, Ulacht, and Thomas back to the square before the church and stop.

Silence has fallen over the square. Father Linus and Magistrius Richard stand before the doors along with a guard of militia archers. More archers wait on the church’s roof, their bows ready. All of them are staring at a slight, gaunt figure in a loose black dress in the center of the square.

Gotha, Gwenaelle’s mother.

Something like an aura of terror rolls off her, like smoke rising from a fire, and for a moment you feel like a mouse confronting an amused cat.

Gotha is staring at you with a gentle smile on her lined face.

You walk forward, Heartwarden glimmering with blue light in your right hand, and the others hang back, weapons in hand.

“You are an urdmordar,” you say, “aren’t you?”

“Ah,” says Gotha in her quavering voice. She totters forward a step, her cane tapping against the ground. “So clever for one so young. Of course, your race usually isn’t.” Her pale green eyes blink. “I remember the first time I saw a human. A thousand years ago, I think. At first I thought the dark elves had shaved an ape for some reason. Though for overgrown monkeys, I admit that you have overgrown brains. Just as well that you so rarely use them.”

“That did not,” you say, pointing Heartwarden at her, “answer my question.”

“No, I didn’t,” says Gotha. “Very good. How difficult it must be to think with all those…chemicals…soaking into your primitive little brain, every nerve and drop of blood screaming for you to run, run now, run while you still can.” She giggles. “How you monkeys fear being eaten.”

She’s right about that, but you refuse to let the fear show on your face. You are a Swordbearer of the Order of the Soulblade, and you shall die like one if your life ends today.

Which, if you are truly facing an urdmordar, seems increasingly likely.

“Leave Victrix, now,” you say, “and you may yet keep your life.”

“I will keep it regardless of your choices,” says Gotha, “and I shall still have it for long millennia after the last human has died sobbing on his knees.”

“Then you leave me with no choice but to kill you,” you say.

“Oh?” says Gotha, amused. “You will strike me down in the name of your High King? Or in the name of your god of sheep?” Her smile widens. “I have heard hundreds of your race beg for your God to save them. And I am still here and they are not. But, fear not. You are cleverer than most, and that sword you bear is actually dangerous. You have impressed me, boy…and earned the gift of a quick death.”

She raises her voice, and you hear the power of magic in her words.

“The Swordbearer!” she shouts, her voice echoing through the burning village. “The Swordbearer! He took the children. He is a dark elven wizard disguised as a Swordbearer! Stop him, stop him now, or he will murder your children as you weep!”

A ripple goes through the watching militiamen…and you see the hatred bloom on their faces.

You hear the creak as they take aim at you with their bows.

Then you hear a growl, and see Ulacht, Thomas, and Hamus stalk towards you, fury in their eyes.

“Farewell, Swordbearer,” croons Gotha. “This will be so much less painful if you lie down and die.”

You grip Heartwarden, your mind racing. Gotha has clearly used a spell.

But what kind of spell?

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