Osric the mage moved swiftly but silently up to the tower, the torch blazing as he held it aloft. He hunched by the pile of kindling and vegetation and thrust the torch into the center, muttering curses under his breath as the wet grasses were slow to light. This close to the broken doorway, the sound of the buzzing within was even more intense, and the mage was certain there had to be an entire nest of some monstrous insects within. His chest tight with fear, he hoped only that he would have time to make it back to the blind before they emerged.
The fire sizzled and flickered into life, and plumes of smoke began to rise from the smoldering pile. He fanned the flames with his cloak, drawing out more smoke, and with relief he saw the smoke begin to draw into the tower through the holes in the door. The blaze had taken hold and plumes of smoke were now flooding the tower, and the heat grew in intensity—and so, too, did the intensity of the buzzing. Osric threw down the torch and sprinted for the blind, and no sooner had he slid into place beside his companions did the enraged insects burst forth from the tower. Six large birdlike creatures with long, needling proboscises flew out of the tower and buzzed around it in a fury as smoke billowed out from the roof. Their wings were feathered and their bodies were bloated, and their multifaceted eyes searched for the offenders as they swarmed. They probed the air, their proboscises twitching as they seemed to be trying to smell the hidden companions. These creatures were known as stirges, and they were honing in on the party’s scent.
The smoke had turned black as it roiled out of the tower. It rose high into the warm afternoon air, a tall, black finger reaching skyward. The wind took it south, and the column of smoke drifted far above the plateau.
Avaricios leaned forward, intending to whisper a question to Osric—something along the lines of “What now?”—when he froze. A guttural roar split the air, raising the hair on their necks. The dragon’s voice boomed out from somewhere out in the city, sending a chill down their spines. Somewhere out there, beyond the ruins, the great beast was beating its wings and taking flight. The dragon was coming.
“Well,” said Osric, “I had not considered that possibility.”
The buzz of the stirges raised in intensity as the aggravated creatures swarmed nearer, closing in on the blind where the companions huddled. Each of them looked at the other, then the doorway in front of them, then up at the sky, and each seemed to reach an unspoken agreement. As one, they vaulted out of their makeshift blind and sprinted the short distance to the doorway and leaped over the smoldering fire, burst through the door, and tumbled into the tower.
They kept low to the ground, their throats and eyes burning as they tried to get their bearings. The smoke was being drawn upwards, into the upper levels of the tower through holes in the floors above. This meant the smoke was less intense on this level, but still their eyes streamed with tears from the stinging fumes. The stirges swarmed around the entrance, the buzzing reaching a furious pitch as they tried and failed to pass through the smoke. Their silhouettes darted around the opening, and their stingers stabbed at the air, trying in vain to reach the breathless party within.
Off in the distance, the huge, heavy wingbeats drew nearer. The smoke billowed into the room as the dragon’s massive wings buffeted the tower, and the fanned flames blasted a wall of scorching heat that washed over the adventurers within. They covered their faces with their cloaks, laying flat against the ground to shield themselves from the almost unbearable wave of heat, and it felt like an eternity before the flames subsided. All at once, as if a switch had been flipped, the stirges buzzing ceased, dissipating into an ominous silence.
The tower shook. Chunks of stone and tile rained down from the ceiling in a cloud of dust and debris, and Gorend heard a strangled cry from somewhere nearby as Avaricios was struck by a fist-sized stone. Any sunlight that had penetrated the tower was blotted out entirely. Wingbeats buffeted the tower, and each stroke sent shivers across the walls of the structure. The adventurers uttered silent oaths and prayers that the ancient tower would hold against the pressure as the dragon hovered overhead.
Over the crackling fire, the wingbeats, the ringing in their ears, all could clearly hear the wet, grisly sound of a carapace being crushed. Somewhere above them, another stirge let out a disturbing squeal of alarm as the jaws of the dragon closed around it, crushing its body easily in its great maw. The wingbeats, then, seemed to lessen in intensity by the smallest of degrees, as if the dragon was flying higher.
The party snapped out of their panic, and Vargr and Gorend seemed of one mind as they immediately began to search the tower for a trapdoor. Though it seemed that perhaps the threat of the stirges had been quelled by the dragon, the great beast was still nearby, and smoke continued to pour into the tower—they had to escape. The large holes in the floors above them acted as a chimney, drawing much of the fumes upward, but still the room was saturated by burning smoke and even Gorend, the shortest of the companions, could not safely stand upright. Instead, they crawled along the rubble-strewn floor, searching for another egress from the tower, anything to get them away.
Their search rewarded them with no exit. However, Osric stumbled upon three canteens; two empty, one containing some liquid. Gorend took the canteen from the mage, removed the lid and gave it a sniff. He offered a wry smile to Avaricios, cleric of Lysseon, and said: “Brandy.”
The dwarf awkwardly tossed it over to him, though it was difficult to do while crawling across the floor, and the cleric scooped it up where it fell. He took a good mouthful of it and sighed, looking around the smoke-filled room. “My god blesses us, apparently.”
They lapsed into silence once more, listening for the tell tale wingbeats. None were forthcoming. The dragon, it seemed, had moved on.
“This smoke is doing us no good anymore,” Gorend growled. “To hell with it. I’m putting it out.” Vargr made to follow him but stopped when he saw the dwarf begin to pull down the front of his trousers. The three men looked at each other wordlessly as they heard the dwarf, cursing and grumbling as he staggered through the smoke, make his way to the entrance to piss on the fire. With some additional scuffling and stamping, the fire was extinguished. Gorend stumped back to them, sooty and irritable, and wiped his hands on his legs. He returned their looks indignantly. “What?”
The smoke had begun to dissipate and Osric rose to his feet. “I’m going to take a look upstairs.” He moved to the staircase and appraised its stability. It seemed to be sound, but he tread carefully as he made his way up nonetheless.
The second floor was almost entirely devoid of furnishing. There was little to see but debris, but Osric saw a further flight of stairs to the third floor and he made his way toward it, testing the floor ahead of him to make sure it was solid.
Gorend peered up at him through the hole in the floor. “There’s got to be a nest up there,” the dwarf warned in a loud whisper. Osric, ever curious, looked down at him and smiled. Then, hefting his staff in his hands, he headed up the staircase.
Avaricios turned to Vargr. “Do we want to just let him go up there by himself? It doesn’t seem very safe.” Vargr returned his question with a shrug as he drank from his waterskin and chewed a few rations. The cleric looked to the dwarf who gave a curt nod in response, and both made their careful way up after the mage, weapons drawn. Vargr watched them go. “Should one of us keep watch at the door?”
“Sounds like you just volunteered,” said Osric, calling down from the top floor.
Gorend and Avaricios climbed the last staircase and joined the mage as he stood surveying the room before them. They had indeed found the nest.
The stirges had roughly piled the tower’s debris into clusters around the perimeter of the room, and there were a few clutches of eggs peering out from the nests. Scattered amongst them, catching in the rays of the sunlight that shone through the hole in the ceiling, they saw the telltale glittering of treasure.
Osric stepped forward and began gently sifting through the nests with the butt of his staff, searching them for the source of the glittering. Gorend had his eyes on the eggs themselves, and he knelt by one of the nests and began delicately placing eggs inside his pack. The eggs were large enough to need two hands to lift them, and the dwarf made sure not to crack or damage the eggs as he worked. There were five, and Gorend quickly realized he would not have room for all of them, but he managed to secure three.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Avaricios joined Osric, drawn by the promise of treasure. To their delight they unearthed three sparkling gems, and together they would fetch a handsome sum of a hundred and fifty-odd gold, were they to find the right buyer.
The two men moved over to join Gorend and show him their findings, but found him staring in consternation at one of the eggs in the nest. “What is it?” the cleric asked.
The dwarf pointed mutely, and the other two leaned in close.
The egg moved.
And then it twitched.
Hairline cracks started to form in its shell.
Osric stepped forward and brought his staff down upon the egg with a sickening crunch. The three wore grim expressions as they looked at the mess before them, the life snuffed out. Osric wiped his staff on a rag and turned away, as did the others.
There was one egg remaining, and Avaricios put his ear against it to check if anything living was inside. Hearing nothing, he stowed it in his pack.
Coming back down the stairs, the party reconvened at the door of the tower, sharing their spoils and sitting down to rest.
“The day is getting on,” said Vargr as they ate their rations. “We do not know how far this inn is, nor do we know what further dangers lie on the path ahead. Should we take the hand of Arden back down the cliff and return to Gosterwick?”
Avaricios shook his head, unable to speak over a mouthful of the dry rations, but Gorend echoed his sentiment aloud. “No, we should press on to the Sign of the Broken Head.”
“We have this loot,” the Wiskin said, gesturing to the gems. “Do we think this inn will have merchants to purchase these from us?”
“We won’t know until we go find out, will we?” Gorend returned.
“And I’ll be willing to bet these stirge eggs make a tasty omelet,” added Osric.
“Alright,” Vargr grinned, rising to his feet. “Say no more. We make for the inn.”
The party moved at a slow, careful pace as they made their way eastward through the ruins of the city. At Gorend’s suggestion, they made for the road that cut through the entire city from north to south. The air was clear above them, and there were no signs of the dragon nor any of the surviving stirges. Looking back over his shoulder as they walked however, Avaricios saw spatters of crimson blood decorating the upper walls of the tower in a few places. All were alert as they proceeded, and at Vargr’s quiet prompting they made their way east while hugging the old wall that lined the cliff’s edge, hoping to explore any towers along the way. While Gorend and Avaricios seemed impatient to keep moving, Osric pointed out the gems they had found in the last tower, and eventually they were swayed.
There was one more round tower on their way before they reached the main entrance—the one they would have passed through had they continued scaling the ramp. This tower was heavily damaged, and only the first floor remained intact while the rest of the structure had collapsed inwards. Though the arch of the doorway itself was still standing, any attempt to gain entry would be heavily obstructed, and the way would require time to clear. Vargr moved ahead to inspect it, but all was silent and still.
Osric leaned on his staff as he looked around him, his brow furrowing. He scraped some of the soil underfoot and found flagstones. He looked at the ruined buildings and rubble around them, deep in contemplation.
“What do you see, mage?” Avaricios asked.
“No trees grow here. But the soil is not tainted or sickly; there is no supernatural force that I can detect influencing nature here. But look there,” Osric said, pointing his staff at a fallen section of wall, and gesturing at the towers around them. “Black marks, soot. Everything in this area of the city looks as if it had once been charred, long ago, by an enormous heat.”
Gorend looked up from his waterskin. “The dragon’s playground, maybe?”
Osric shook his head thoughtfully. “This appears to me as if this was from a single, massive event. Some vast fire blasted through this portion of the city long ago; and I do not think even the greatest of dragons could be large or powerful enough to create something such as that.” He gestured at some of the uncovered flagstone he’d dug up under their feet. Gorend’s eyes widened.
“The stone was turned to slag!” said the dwarf in awe.
Osric nodded grimly. “Some catastrophic force worked its devastation here many centuries ago, the likes of which I have never seen before.”
Vargr had returned to hear this dark portend, and when all fell silent to consider this, the Wiskin gave his report. The companions moved on.
As they traveled along the old city wall, Gorend took in the fallen masonry and studied the construction, noting that these walls had likely once stood twenty feet tall and fifteen feet thick; truly mighty battlements. Vines and vegetation snaked over much of their surface, and sunlight shone through the pockmarked and fissured surface of the stone. Soon, they arrived at the southern gates of Arden Vul.
The gate towers were grander than the other towers in every way, and rose some fifty feet high above their heads. The tower nearest them was mostly intact, although the topmost level had been destroyed utterly, almost as if it had been sheared off. It seemed there might have once been a wooden gate that spanned the two gate towers, but it had long since fallen to ruin. Giving the nearest tower a closer look, they noticed the arrow slits were completely covered with a dense lacework of cobwebs.
“The gate still remains guarded, it would appear,” Osric said, gesturing at the web with the stem of his pipe. “Let us leave the spiders undisturbed, shall we? Why not allow them to continue their work, and keep our competition out of the city?”
“Or we could smoke them out, too,” Vargr mused.
Osric was about to argue, but caught himself as a thought struck him. “Spiders do tend to capture many sorts of things in their webs, don’t they?”
Avaricios shook his head. “Unlike stirges, these spiders are not going to fly away. They’re going to climb out and come looking for us; and I don’t think we can count on another lucky brush with that dragon.”
“I will investigate,” the Wiskin said, moving off before anyone could speak further.
Vargr moved carefully and quietly around the base of the gate tower until he came to the door. It was ajar, and heavily afflicted by rust. Vargr waited near the black opening, listening carefully for anything within. It did not take long for him to pick up the faint sounds of insectile scuttling from somewhere inside.
Vargr returned and told them what he heard. “We could smoke them out of their nests—or we could torch them, set it all ablaze.” A glint flickered in the Wiskin’s eyes as he drew a flask of lantern oil from his pack.
“We could soak some fuel in oil and lob it inside,” Gorend said excitedly, casting around him for suitable material. “Bramble, gorse—something that will continue burning once the oil ignites.”
“Hold, hold friends!” urged the cleric, holding his hands up as if trying to halt a running horse. “Have we learned nothing? Will not the smoke draw the ire of the dragon once more?”
Vargr waved him away dismissively as he and Gorend started gathering material to burn. His words gave Osric pause, however.
“Ah, yes... Perhaps you might be onto something there, my friend.” The mage puffed his pipe and waved a hand at his two fire-hungry companions. “He speaks sense. Perhaps we should leave this tower alone.”
“Bah! You bend like a willow, mage!” Vargr came towards him, thinly disguised frustration creeping into his voice. “Have you no spine?”
Gorend stood aside from the men as they argued. He paused his foraging and watched the tower, letting the voices of his companions fade away as he considered the structure. Suddenly, a jolt of fear shivered up his back as he saw movement in one of the arrow slits on the second floor. A huge, black spider reached its legs through the opening, testing the stone with thin, wicked limbs. It pulled itself out and crawled up the tower, and when its entire body was revealed he saw that it was six feet long. A flash of red gave away the telltale hourglass-shaped mark on its abdomen, an evil symbol of its deadly venom.
Unable to speak, his mouth moving to form words that would not come, the dwarf gripped Vargr’s forearm and pointed. All arguments ceased, and each of the companions watched aghast as the spider crawled up to the ruined upper floor and disappeared back into the tower. Vargr’s mouth set in a hard line, and he conceded wordlessly, giving a short nod to Avaricios and Osric before turning away. Without further delay, the party hefted their packs and departed from the gate towers with haste. They turned their attention instead to the main road through Arden Vul, and stepping on to the overgrown cobblestones of the thoroughfare, they found themselves face to face with the obelisk.
