Roderick
Evil laughter echoed through the hall as Roderick staggered toward the black altar, his armor hanging in tatters and his sword still firmly in hand.
“So! Our sacrificial victim has a hero. Have you come to rescue her? No matter—you, too, shall join in my ascension.”
With a wave of his hand, the Dark King sent a wall of flames before Roderick’s face, cutting him off from the nefarious altar. Roderick yelped and leaped back, barely evading the blistering heat of the blaze. Gripping his sword with grim resolve, he tried to go around them, but the sorcerous flames surrounded him.
With a mighty roar, Roderick tried to push through the obstructing fire. But his body was weak from the flight through the catacombs, and he could not endure the heat for more than a few moments. Frustrated but undefeated, he fell back into the flaming circle, his hair singed and his armor hot to the touch.
The Dark King laughed at Roderick’s futile attempts to pierce the wall of flame. He thrust out his arm and raised it high, drawing forth an army of undead skeletal warriors.
“You thought your warrior’s heart would save you?” the Dark King sneered. “All the might and strength that you possess shall be no match for my minions! Tremble with fear as I command them to tear you in pieces!”
But Roderick was not intimidated so easily. He had faced these fey minions before, and worse within the catacombs besides. As the wall of flame dissipated and the sword-wielding skeletons closed in for the kill, he took a deep breath and charged headlong, bellowing with all his might.
This was what he had come for. These were the forces of darkness he had vowed to fight. He met the first wave in a brutal clash of blades, shattering their brittle bones and smashing their grinning skulls. A few of their strikes drew blood, but he ignored his wounds and pressed the attack until the mindless hordes broke before Roderick’s righteous might.
“Well done!” roared the Dark King, as if Roderick’s swordplay were only sport. “But you will have to do more than that if you truly wish to impress me.”
“I wish you dead!” Roderick shouted, pushing through the next wave toward the altar upon which Laria lay. “You are nothing but a king of a crumbling ruin, not even fit for the vultures and rats!”
The Dark King laughed. “Your strong words will not stop me from slaying your precious friend. When her blood has been spilt upon the black altar, my dark and terrible reign upon the world shall then begin!”
“Your pitiful reign ends today!” Roderick shouted, undaunted by the Dark King’s taunting claims. “Release the girl Laria and surrender to your fate!”
“I am the Dark King!” his adversary bellowed. “My kingdom will never die!”
Roderick shattered another skeletal warrior with a mighty swing of his sword, then threw back his head and laughed. “Your kingdom is a forgotten trash heap, and your soul is bound to it until the last stone crumbles to dust! You will never rule over the land of the living—only over these stinking bones!”
The Dark King snarled and raised his fists. Immediately, his minions ceased their attack, pulling back to leave Roderick panting for breath. He raised his sword high above his head, sensing that the Dark King himself had decided to join the fight.
Look to his crown! a small but insistent voice whispered in his ear. Was it Laria? How could that possibly be? He risked a quick glance at the altar, but her body was still bound upon it, as unconscious and unmoving as before.
The flames roared suddenly back to life, but not before the Dark King had stepped within the circle. He brandished a burning whip in one hand, and a black iron mace in the other. Heeding the voice, Roderick cast his gaze upward at the crown upon the Dark King’s head, and lo! a magnificent gemstone glowed within the midst of it, pulsating with sorcerous energy.
The heart of Xulthar! Roderick realized as the words of the temple’s high priest came back to him. Somehow, that gem was the nexus of the Dark King’s sorcerous power.
“Your insolence annoys me,” the Dark King stated flatly, “but your will is stronger than most. When your soul has been bound to mine, I shall make you one of my chief lieutenants.”
“Never!” Roderick shouted as he charged.
The two combatants exchanged a flurry of blows. The Dark King swung his mace in a murderous arc, but Roderick ducked beneath it and slashed at the Dark King’s ankles. His blade passed harmlessly through the king’s billowing cloak as he swiftly stepped backward, and with the crack of his whip sent Roderick tumbling to the floor.
Rolling quickly to his feet, Roderick lifted his sword just in time to deflect the Dark King’s mace. He sent a deadly riposte at his adversary’s chest, but the Dark King kicked Roderick in the chest, knocking him back a step. He recovered swiftly, but not enough to evade the Dark King’s whip. It lacerated his flesh before ripping his sword from his hand.
“I grow tired of this pointless contest.” A sorcerous blue light surrounded the Dark King as he grabbed Roderick by the throat and lifted him off of the ground. Roderick tried to break his grip, kicking and struggling with all his might, but his efforts were all in vain.
“I can feel the strength of your soul as you resist me,” the Dark King said. “It shall bring me exquisite pleasure to bind it to mine forever.”
The pulsating gemstone was so close that Roderick could almost touch it. He reached out desperately for it, ignoring the Dark King’s grip on his throat. But the Dark King only laughed as he choked the breath out of him.
“Did you think I would let you seize the heart of Xulthar so easily? No—you are defeated!”
Roderick gasped for breath as the Dark King threw him onto the stone floor. He struggled to rise to his feet, his body bruised and battered after so much deadly fighting. It was almost more than he could bear.
“Kneel before your everlasting sovereign!” the Dark King bellowed.
“Never,” Roderick growled. Exerting all his strength, he stood up straight, his hands balled into fists. He would never kneel before such a monster.
“Defiant to the end!” the Dark King laughed. “I like it. You truly will be one of my greatest minions.”
“I’ll go to hell before I serve you!”
“And so you shall,” the Dark King answered cryptically. “So you shall.”
He lifted his twisted hand to cast a final spell—the same that had transfigured the priest of the black altar, and the lost adventurer in the abandoned caravanserai, and so many others before. But as he did so, a brilliant white light shone immediately around Roderick’s person, brightening until it filled the entire chamber.
“No,” the Dark King exclaimed in disbelief. “How can you defy my power? It cannot be!”
“Yes, it can,” said Roderick—and from beneath his shirt, he pulled out the claw talisman that the fallen adventurer had instructed him to fashion from his dying flesh. It now glowed with the same brilliant light that had protected Roderick from the Dark King’s sorcery, bestowing newfound strength to his bruised and battered frame.
The Dark King roared in rage, but before he could recover, Roderick seized his sword and swung it at the Dark King’s crown. The blade struck true, and the Heart of Xulthar shattered into a thousand shimmering shards.
The effect was immediate. The Dark King’s roar turned to a howl of agony and pain. His undead skeletal minions swayed as his magic flowed inward, toward the broken crown. One by one, then all at once, they collapsed into heaps of bones. Then the Dark King himself fell to his knees, and with one last cry of despair, his robes burst into flames.
Roderick stepped back, shielding his face with his arm. The flames burned hot but fast, dying down to embers as suddenly as they had come. When it was all done, the Dark King’s corpse was little more than ash and blackened bone.
“It is done,” said Roderick, sheathing his battered sword. Honor had at last been satisfied, and the name of House Valtan could now be restored.
Yet even as he surveyed the now eerily quiet scene, Roderick could not help but feel uneasy. Even though he had destroyed the Heart of Xulthar, the power that had possessed the gem still lingered in the air. He sensed that the curse of Xulthar had not yet truly been lifted, even if its immortal sovereign had been slain.
As he gazed about the bone-strewn chamber, his eyes fell upon the black altar, with Laria still lying upon it. He rushed to her side, cutting her bonds with his dagger and examining her naked body for any sign of harm or injury. There was none that he could see, but her spell-induced slumber refused to abate, and she remained as unconscious as before.
“Wake up, Laria!” he shouted, gently shaking her, but his frantic efforts had no effect. Nothing he did could wake her. It was as if she lay between life and death itself.
Roderick’s heart raced. A wave of helplessness seemed to wash over him, making him feel as if he were drowning in its wake. Although he had withstood all the sorcery of the Dark King, this was magic that he could not break. All he could do was wait and watch.
Falling to his knees, his heart heavy with hopelessness, Roderick bowed his head and wept.
Laria
The moment the Dark King passed, a tremor reverberated through the very core of Laria’s being. Though she was still just a spirit, she felt it as surely as if it had been an earthquake beneath her very feet. With his death, the power that kept her from her body suddenly released her, and she floated toward it, pulled by that force that gave her life in the mortal realm.
She returned to the central chamber of the temple and saw Roderick kneeling at the black altar, surrounded by the bones of those lost souls who had plied the river of death. They were free now that they were no longer bound to the Dark King’s will. But Laria’s body was far from gone—in fact, it still lay on the altar, where Roderick strove in vain to resuscitate her. She saw his tears and felt seized by a sudden sadness.
Don’t cry for me, Roderick, she wanted to tell him. All is well.
Just then, a portal opened above her, and a pillar of pure light descended until it completely enveloped her. She looked down quickly at Roderick, wondering if he was as surprised as her, but he did not glance up—evidently, the light was invisible to all but her.
She looked up and gasped in wonder upon the Immortal Realm. She saw, and remembered, and understood the things which few men discover before death, and all forget upon birth. With a perfect knowledge, she knew that this place of wonder and beauty was her true home, far from the pain and suffering of the Mortal Realm.
“I’m coming!” she said eagerly, answering the call to come back home. She flew on wings of glory toward the eternal light, ignoring the pull of her body as she began her ascent into the light, to rest in joy and peace forever. In that moment, she felt as if her entire life had been nothing more than a fitful dream, soon to be forgotten.
But at the same time, she knew that if she chose this path—if she answered the call now, in her current pitiful state—she would feel just as frail and insubstantial in that eternal world as she felt in her disembodied state. For just as her body served to anchor her spirit to the physical realities of the Mortal Realm, the experiences that she gained there would anchor her to the spiritual realities in the life beyond.
I cannot go yet, she realized with dismay. My life has been too poor, to devoid of real experience, to return to my immortal home right now.
After all, how much of life had she truly experienced as a slave? Yes, she had learned to tell the bitter from the sweet, the evil from the good, the suffering from the joy—but that was only the first and most basic step in her eternal journey. Because she had never truly owned anything, not even her own self, that knowledge counted almost for nothing, for she had never put it to practical use. Without the experience that came from exercising her agency, she would have no anchor in that undying world.
But could she embrace her own freedom? Could she really become her own master, though the very thought filled her with terror and fright?
Yes, she decided—and in that very moment, her spirit fled into her physical form, leaving the immortal light and returning to the terrible dream. All of her aches and pains suddenly flooded back to her, filling her with agonizing awareness of her own mortality.
And yet, there was something purifying about the pain—something that made her feel grateful for it, even as it made her moan. There was no pain in the Void, but neither was there any other sensation. Life was pain, she now realized, and she would gladly suffer the worst of it for the privilege of living one more day.
She gasped for breath and opened her eyes to see Roderick standing over her. “Laria!” he said quickly. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, catching her breath. “I… I think so,” she managed to say.
With Roderick’s help, she sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the stone altar. The tattered remains of her clothes still lay where they had been torn from her, leaving her naked.
As Roderick’s eyes unconsciously traced the curves of her body, she felt a sudden warmth flush over her skin. Was it embarrassment? No, not quite: more like a sense of heightened vulnerability, which was strange in itself, because Roderick had never done anything to harm her.
“I am sorry for what you had to endure, Laria,” he said as he averted his eyes. “It was my fault that the Dark King’s minions seized you in the catacombs.”
“It’s all right,” she said, smiling to set him at ease. “It all worked out in the end, didn’t it?”
“I suppose,” he said softly.
The way that he blushed reminded her of the time she had bathed for him in the oasis. She remembered what he had told her about privacy, how it was a thing that all men value who are truly free. Was that the source of her newfound vulnerability? As a slave, she had often tried to attract his carnal gaze, but that was before her body had truly been her own.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she reassured him. Then she noticed his own wounds, and her eyes widened in horror. “Roderick—you’re hurt!”
“I’m all right,” he protested lamely, but she was having none of it. Forgetting her own nakedness, she hurried to his side.
“Let me tend to your wounds. Here—lie down.”
“But—”
“Just do it, Roderick. Please.”
He took a deep breath and complied with her commands. Only then did she notice the hundreds of charred and broken bones that lay scattered about the black altar. She ignored them for the moment, only taking the time to clear a space for him to lie down. Then, tearing a strip of cloth from his tunic, she used the water from his waterskin to make a swab.
“Your flesh is singed,” she said, wiping it ever so gently. The worst burns were on his arms, which also had several deep cuts.
“The Dark King raised a wall of fire to keep me from rescuing you,” he told her. “I tried to break through, but it was too much for me.”
“We need to bandage the worst of these wounds,” she said, looking for more cloth that she could use. His tunic was stained with blood, sweat, and ash, but her own tattered robes were still relatively clean. She picked up the fabric and began tearing it into strips.
“I’m all right,” he protested. “None of these cuts is serious.”
“Just rest for a minute. I’ll take care of you. Here, let’s get you out of that armor.”
He resisted at first, but even he could see that his armor was so broken as to be totally useless. She eased it gently off of him. Then, with great care, she washed and bandaged the worst of his wounds.
Her hands were surprisingly steady, even though she still felt shaken by what she had endured while bound on the black altar. But judging from his wounds, Roderick had endured far worse. In fact, it was a wonder he was still conscious. As she gently nursed him, he closed his eyes and began to drift in and out of sleep.
“It’s all right,” she said soothingly as she ran her fingers across his forehead. “Everything will be alright.”
“Thank you,” he whispered, his eyes flickering with gratitude. His chest slowly rose and fell with each breath, and Laria felt a strange stirring in her own breast as she watched him.
Her gaze wandered to the edge of the chamber, where the charred remains of the Dark King lay. His flesh had turned to dust of ash, his skull bleached white and frozen in a final scream. It was almost too terrible a sight for her to bear. Nevertheless, she forced herself to look until she was sure of his demise.
“Did all of the Dark King’s minions perish with him when his magic was broken?”
“I do not know,” he answered truthfully. He coughed, and only then did she see the deep burn marks that lined the side of his forearm.
“Roderick! Your arm! What happened?”
He grinned sheepishly, though she could tell he was in great pain. “I must have been too close when the Dark King burst into flames. I had my arm in front of my face, but my armor shielded me from the worst of the blast.”
She opened his shirt and saw to her dismay that his chest was burned as badly as his arm. The armor must have grown too hot, and kept the worst of it in for too long. That explained the cough.
“I fear… that unless we find a skilled healer… I shall never wield a weapon again…”
“Don’t talk like that,” she said, quickly tearing another strip of cloth. “We’ll save your arm.”
“Perhaps,” he said, coughing again. “As long as there is breath in these lungs, I…”
His voice trailed off, and his eyes began to glaze over. To Laria’s horror, there were little flecks of blood around his mouth—the wound in his chest must be far more severe than either of them had realized. She looked around frantically for help, but there was none to be found.
“Roderick!” she said desperately, taking his hand in both of her own. “Stay with me, Roderick! Do not give in to death! Please—do not go!”
His eyes fluttered open one last time, and in spite of the pain he obviously carried, he smiled and pulled her close.
“Stay strong, Laria. Be well. Do not… give up on this world. Do not… let despair take you, like it almost… took me.”
“Roderick!” she said helplessly as he fell into another coughing fit. This time, there was too much blood to ignore. He was dying—of that, there could be no doubt.
Tears came to Laria’s eyes as she remembered the pillar of light that had enveloped her, and the wonderful view of the Immortal Realm. As Roderick drifted gently into unconsciousness, she wondered if he saw a similar vision. She squeezed his hand, now grown frighteningly limp, and fell into a fit of sobs. He seemed so peaceful, she almost couldn’t believe that he was dying. After all that they had been through, this was almost too much to bear.
At that moment, a deafening roar shook the very foundations of the temple. Laria jumped in fright, unsure whether to run or to shield Roderick from this new terror. But then, an eerie but familiar figure stepped out of the shadows, wreathed in tendrils of smoke.
“Do not be afraid,” the priest of the black altar reassured her. “My will was bound to the Dark King’s, but now that he is dead, I am finally free.”
“You are?” she asked hesitantly. His form seemed to shift and change from man to beast to man again, much as it had upon their first meeting. And yet, there was something different about his appearance that she couldn’t quite describe.
“Yes,” he answered mournfully. “I am free to pass on from this mortal coil, and face my fate in the eternal realm. I know that I will never be able to atone for all the souls that I have slain on this sorcerous altar, and for my many sins, I fear that my fate will be terrible.”
The priest continued to approach her, moving like a shadow of darkness that was deeper than any Laria had ever seen. Even an assassin would not have been able to find his way through it.
Laria took a deep breath and stood up straight before the priest, almost daring him to take her. “Have you come to make one more sacrifice?” she asked, clenching her fists.
Despite the terror that the priest of the dark altar instilled within her heart, she would face him as best she could—even if she had to draw blood with Roderick’s sword. But then the priest spoke.
“Nay, friend. I have no desire to extend my time in this world. An eternity of torment for my sins is preferable to living forever with them as a slave in this mortal world. I have not come to slay you on the black altar of Xulthar.”
“Then why have you come?”
He paused, shifting between forms almost involuntarily. Perhaps that was the change that had come upon him.
“Your eyes tell me that you are pure and innocent, more so than most whom I have slain upon this awful slab of stone. In spite of that, I sense a strange connection between us, as if this altar has intertwined our souls. My heart aches with longing for the hope I once had, yet can no longer find within me. But your soul is not nearly as tainted as mine.”
From deep within the coils of smoke, the priest produced a vial of shining blue liquid.
“Once a man has tasted eternal life, he will never be able to live without the hope of it. The hope that burns within you is far too precious to be lost to the tragedy of the flesh.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, confused by his shifting words. “What is that vial in your hands?”
As he held it out to her, it seemed to float in a cloud of shifting smoke. “This elixir, fashioned with the last of my dying magic, will grant life and healing to whoever partakes. It will not grant eternal life, for that is not mine to give, but it will bring his soul back from the Void.”
Laria nodded gratefully. She knew now how it felt to be bound to the darkness. Her heart ached for the priest, who had little hope of finding the joy which she had briefly tasted.
“Take this,” he said softly, handing her the vial. “Use it to save your friend.”
“Thank you,” Laria said reverently.
“And now, I must go,” the priest said sadly. “I have spent the last of my dying energy to appear to you, and my soul must pass from this mortal world.”
A deep crimson color washed over the priest’s shifting body, bubbling and steaming with a weird and sorcerous heat. Laria stepped back, shielding Roderick, but unlike the Dark King, the priest did not burst into flame. Instead, with one last groan, he released a wave of smoke so thick that the entire temple was engulfed in its darkness. When the smoke finally dissipated, all that remained was a pile of fine bone dust, as white as the driven snow.
Laria turned hurriedly to face Roderick. With trembling fingers, she opened the vial and carefully poured a few drops onto his wounded arm. Miraculously, it began to heal before her eyes! She pressed the vial to his lips and poured the rest of it down his throat, waiting eagerly to see what would happen. After a few moments, he stirred and sat up, life and color returning to his cheeks.
“What happened?” he asked.
Laria choked back a sob of relief. She cupped his cheeks in her hands and smiled at him through tear-filled eyes.
“The priest of the black altar,” she said, almost unable to contain herself. “You’re alive now, thanks to him!”
“Thanks to who?”
She pulled him into a fierce hug and held him there for a long time. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, crying tears of joy. “I’m just happy to see you.”
“So am I, Laria,” he answered. “So am I.”
Roderick
Roderick’s body healed with surprising speed. In merely minutes, he had recovered enough to stand and shed most of his bandages. He felt like a new person, free of the aches and pains of his long journey. He hadn’t realized how much of a burden they had been, but now that he was healed, he wondered how he’d managed to bear them at all.
“How do you feel now?” Laria asked, her eyes full of joy at his rapid recovery.
Roderick smiled at her. “Much better now, thanks to you. What about yourself?”
Laria shrugged. “I feel a bit exhausted, but otherwise all right. I didn’t sustain nearly as many wounds as you.”
That much was clear to see, for she was still completely naked. In her frenzy to help him, she’d forgotten that fact, putting his welfare above her own. But now that he was well again, she hugged her chest self-consciously—something he’d never see her do as a slave.
“Nevertheless,” he muttered as he averted his eyes. His gaze fell upon the ash and bones that lay scattered across the floor, giving the temple an eerie, desolate appearance. “Come, let us be gone from this place. There is nothing for us here.”
“I agree,” Laria said readily. “Let us put this cursed city of Xulthar behind us forever.”
Roderick frowned and gave her a puzzled look. “And abandon its treasure to the jackals and the bats, when it lies so nearly within our grasp? No. Besides,” he added, stretching for an excuse, “you are naked. We should not leave before we find some garments with which to clothe you. The desert sun will not be kind to your fair complexion.”
“I can manage just fine,” Laria protested, but Roderick refused to accept that as an answer. How could he, when the riches of Xulthar were almost within their grasp? Not bothering to look if Laria would follow, he set off down the nearest adjoining hall, searching for any sign of the legendary treasure.
“There’s nothing here,” she said, pulling on his arm. “Nothing but hard granite walls and dusty marble floors.”
“Nay,” he said softly. “When the Dark King passed, I sensed that his power still remained. This place is still cursed, and I must find the source of it.”
“Did you not say that the treasure itself is cursed?” she tried to reason with him. “If it is, then should we not leave before we fall under its power?”
“Nay,” he repeated, though he was no longer really listening. He felt her tug on his arm again, but ignored her feeble attempts to stop him.
At length, they came to a hall where the stones were unweathered and the floors were devoid of dust and sand. Unlike the rest of the ruined temple, this place was pure and pristine. The walls and floors were fashioned of polished marble, and intricate frescoes adorned the vaulted ceiling. White silk hangings, trimmed with gold, hung between the pillars. Roderick drew his dagger and used it to cut one of them down.
“Here,” he said, holding it out to her. “You should be able to fashion something with that.”
While Laria wrapped the fabric around her body, Roderick examined the room. He could feel that they were close to the treasure, though he couldn’t tell how. But wherever it was, it clearly was not here, for the chamber itself was empty, the marble floors devoid of any furnishings.
“There,” said Laria, adjusting the silk fabric into a crude tunic. “Now, let’s leave this place.”
“Not yet.”
“Please, Roderick,” she begged. “This place is evil. You’ve already defeated the Dark King—what more could you possibly want?”
“To restore my house and honor,” he answered as he wandered back out into the hall.
A pair of stone doors stood at the end of it, engraved with ancient runes. Laria gasped at the sight of them, but Roderick ignored that as he walked up to them. Something about the doors drew him toward them, as if his soul were tied to a string that he now felt tugging on him. The runes traced a circle between the doors, and Roderick put his hand in the center of it, though he couldn’t tell why. With an echoing boom that shook the very walls of the temple, the doors swung open of their own accord.
“Roderick,” Laria whispered, still holding onto his arm. But he ignored her and pressed on into the massive chamber, gasping in wonder at what he saw.
From wall to windowless wall, the chamber was filled with piles of treasure. Gold coins glinted as if with their own light, while silver shone coldly with the whiteness of ice and snow. Gems and jewels of every kind lay strewn about like riverstones, some smooth, others sharp and multi-faceted. Besides the coins and jewels, Roderick saw all sorts of artifacts: chalices and candelabra, necklaces and chains and rings, bars stacked like bricks and crowns fit for the heads of kings.
The sight of so much treasure awakened something deep within his soul. His eyes wide and dazzled, he could hardly contain how he felt.
“Look at this, Laria,” he said eagerly. “Do you see all this?”
“I see it,” she said quietly.
Roderick grabbed a handful of coins and let them fall through his fingers. “This is it, Laria,” he shouted in frenzied abandon. “The riches of Xulthar!”
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