Chapter 6: Zweissergrund
Zanther and Novanostrum tromp up the snow-covered path, spotting an idyllic mountain village. The log buildings are immaculate, with cheerful children and smiling wives visible in the windows. In the distance, they can see a ski lodge with a few rosy-cheeked tourists standing on a balcony, their smiling mouths puffing out clouds of steam. Zanther and Novanostrum look at each other, horrified, and they keep walking on the main path, bypassing the town and heading toward the pagoda-shaped pagoda perched ominously atop a nearby mountain.
“Let’s just find these monks and make tracks to somewhere warm,” Zanther says.
“You realize you’re travelling with a world-class wizard,” Novanostrum says, “there’s no reason either of us should needlessly suffer this uninfernal climate.”
“Yeah, so what can you do? Magick the sun a little closer? Apparate me some whiskey? Summon a centaur and cut it open so I can climb inside?”
Novanostrum reaches up his sleeve and pulls out a very, very long scarf and hands it to Zanther.
“Gee...thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
The old man leads Madra and D’kassar down the street, past horse-drawn carriages containing vacationing nobles, past rows of nearly identical cottages. A few blocks ahead, they can see the large log mansion, the home and office of Mayor Slotterhaus, the master of Zweissergrund.
“You’ve been so kind to us,” Madra says to the old man, “and we never even asked your name.”
He turns to her and holds out his hand. “Josepher Crickadee. Nice to meet you.”
“Crickadee,” she says, “it sounds...familiar, but I’m not sure why.”
He narrows his eyes at her for a moment, but brushes off her comment, instead pointing to a small shop on the corner of the intersection.
“That place,” he says, “has the best blackbread rolls you ever tasted. Three dodeckas for a dozen, if I’m not mistaken.”
“This town sure has changed since I was last here,” D’kassar says as he looks around the town, taking in the orderly rows of vacation homes and the newly-cobbled streets.
A young woman smiles at him, her fur coat clinging tightly to her trim figure. Unconsciously, he starts veering toward her before Crickadee grabs him by the collar and points him back toward the log mansion.
“Careful,” Crickadee says, wagging a finger, “she’s a tourist trap.”
D’kassar turns his head for once last glance, and she winks at him. He starts to wave at her before feeling a slap on the back of his head.
“Focus,” Madra says, “we’re here for a reason.”
Two guards wearing hooded fur coats and holding powderblasts are posted in front of the large oak door leading into the mansion. Crickadee puts a hand on Madra’s shoulder, pulling her aside and speaking softly into her ear.
“This is as far as I go. Slotterhaus is a shrewd man, and he knows everything that goes on in this quiet little town, but be careful--he didn’t get to be mayor because of his charm and wit.”
D’kassar speaks to the guards, and they are allowed into the main hall, where they wait on a bench for a butler, who leads them into Slotterhaus’ office.
An enormous window comprises the outside wall of the spacious room. The two remaining walls are wood-paneled, adorned with the heads of various exotic animals. The eyes of a yafbeest head mounted on a plaque glare at Madra and D’kassar. Slotterhaus sits behind a massive mahogany desk. His tiny eyes move back and forth, reading the text on the paper he holds in his hands.
Madra coughs, a sarcastic attempt at getting the Mayor’s attention.
“A report,” he says, not bothering to look up, “the safety of my people depends on my diligence. I’ll be finished in a moment, if you would be so gracious as to wait.”
D’kassar stands politely with his arms behind his back, and Madra taps her foot impatiently.
“You!” Slotterhaus says, suddenly jabbing a fat finger at D’kassar, “I hear you used to be a Nasonic monk. I also hear you’re pretty handy with a powderblast. I’m looking for a new ski instructor with just that very skillset. My last instructor had a rather unfortunate incident with a pair of yeti, you see.”
D’kassar shifts nervously from foot to foot. “Yes, well, I mean, if it pays well--”
The afternoon sun shines brightly on the top of Slotterhaus’ head. “It does, it does. And you,” he says, turning his lascivious gaze to Madra, “I bet there’s a job here for you, too.”
Her left eyelid begins to twitch.
Zanther and Novanostrum reach the giant stone temple, and Zanther rushes up to pound on the double doors. Inside, he can hear shouting and grunting. Novanostrum tilts his head, listening to the sound of footsteps approaching the doorway. They wait for the doors to swing open.
After three ticks, nothing happens. Zanther bangs his fists on the doors again.
They exchange a confused look, both of them getting irritated and confused. Zanther tries pulling one of the doors open by its large metal handle, only to find it locked and immobile. Novanostrum pulls out his staff, waving it in slow, gentle movements, magickinetically manipulating the springs and gears in the lock in an attempt to force it open. They hear a small click, and Zanther tries the door again.
Again, nothing happens.
Novanostrum leans forward, surveying the handles, the hinges, and the lock.
“Damned thing is welded shut.”
“Guess these guys don’t get out much,” Zanther says.
“Well, how do we get in?” Novanostrum asks as they both hear an ear-splitting scream.
“Are we sure we really want to?”
“Okay, well let’s just take a few moments to compose ourselves. No sense in getting all worked up,” Novanostrum says as he steps a few paces away from the door and sits cross-legged, producing his pipe and filling it with a pinch of smokeweed. He snaps his fingers and a small flame appears as he puffs his pipe and looks over the façade of the building. Zanther has his hear pressed to the door, listening to the strange grunts and shouts inside.
Aside from the steel door, the wall of the pagoda is made of one piece of solid stone, flat and ten man-lengths high. Above the wall is a small eave topped by a stone roof, and the next floor is indented inward two or three man-lengths, in true pagoda fashion. All told, the building is seven stories high, all stone, and no windows.
“Can’t you blast a hole in this wall with a lightning bolt or something?”
“Yeah, and they’ll be really eager to help us if I do that.”
“I mean, they’re just monks. We could probably rough them up a little. No big deal.”
“Here’s my thinking, Zanther. There are people living in there, so they’ve got to get food and water and oxygen, so it’s logical to assume that people go in and out of this building.”
“You’re saying there must be another door somewhere. Well, let’s start looking for it.”
“Clearly, it’s hidden. There could be a tunnel through this mountain, or it could be concealed by magick. Rather than try and cover this whole area fingerwidth-by-fingerwidth, it might behoove us to go back to that village and sniff around for information.”
“That creepy-looking village with the gingerbread houses? I bet they don’t even have a pub.”
“Zanther, if there is one universal truth I’ve discovered during my travels, it’s this: there is always a pub.”
The two of them make their way back down the mountain, their footfalls marked by imprints in the thin layer of snow covering the hard-packed dirt of the trail.
“All this walking,” Zanther says, “I mean, we should’ve been travelling by skyship from the start, right? I mean, it’d be faster, at least.”
Novanostrum shakes his head. “With everyone out to kill us? If you tried to get on a skyship, they’d find us in a tick. Not to mention the cost. I know I can’t afford it. Can you?”
“I suppose not,” Zanther says as they reach the outskirts of the town.
They wend their way through the tangle of shops and lodges and cottages, finally making it to the pub. Novanostrum pats Zanther on the shoulder.
“I’m going to ask around a bit, see what I can find out about this temple,” Novanostrum says, “you check around in there. I’ll meet you in a little while.”
“Sounds good,” Zanther says as he heads inside.
Compared to the rest of the village, the pub is an island of normalcy. It resembles a pub in the two most important ways a pub can be resembled: it sells alcoholic drinks, and is full of drunks. Zanther spends a tick unwinding his unwieldy scarf and hangs it on a peg. He strolls over to the bar and plops himself onto a stool.
“What’s your drink?” the bartender asks.
“I’d like a Mongovian Brain Buster.”
“Those are my favorite, too. However, we don’t have those; we don’t have everything you need to make ‘em.”
“Okay, well, how about a Screwdropper?”
“Don’t have those, either.”
“Okay, well, what do you have?”
“All we serve is Muscov Gin.”
“So why did you ask me what I wanted?”
“Well, if you said you wanted Muscov Gin, I’d serve you that.”
“I’ll have a Muscov Gin.”
“Good choice.”
Zanther waits patiently as the bartender mixes his drink, and tosses a few dodeckas on the counter after eagerly seizing the glass and gulping the drink down in a few chugs. The bartender watches this performance, standing at the ready.
“Another drink?”
“Just make two of them, it’ll save us both some time.”
The bartender mixes two more Muscov Gins and takes away the empty glass and a handful of dodeckas. Zanther downs the second drink in one shot and begins sipping the second. After a few ticks, he starts to wobble on his barstool as the alcohol hits him.
Novanostrum appears, taking a seat next to Zanther, rubbing his red hands together. The bartender, recognizing his robes as those belonging to a high-level wizard--one likely possessing the ability to reduce the place to a smoking crater or perhaps the ability to produce large sums of cash--runs from the other side of the bar to take Novanostrum’s order.
“Wizard, what can I get you?”
“Can I get a Mongovian Brain Buster?”
“Sure thing.”
Zanther gives them both a sour look and sizes up the remainder of his drink. Novanostrum turns to him.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. I didn’t have any luck finding out about the temple. Did you?”
“Temple? What temple?” Zanther asks.
Novanostrum nods, unsurprised. The bartender appears with his drink.
“Hey, bartender, we need to get into that temple up on the mountain. How do we go about that?”
“Don’t know why you’d want to go in there. Those Nasonic monks are all a bunch of nutters. Anyway, about ten sunspins ago they stocked up on enough rice and beer to last an entire century and shut themselves up in there for good, to await the return of some prophet or something. Nobody goes in or out.”
Novanostrum gives him a confused look. “So, if nobody can get in or out, how’s their messiah supposed to get in?”
“Well, the way I understand it, that’s the point. He was kind of a bastard. Killed thousands in the name of some god or another. When he was finally captured, he was being lowered into a volcano, and he swore he’d come back for revenge. So those guys, those Nasonic monks, they built a fortress and they hide in it in case he makes good on his promise.”
“That’s a shame,” Novanostrum says, “we really need to talk to a Nasonic monk.”
“Would an ex-monk do? I hear there’s one at the Mayor’s mansion right now.”
The Pontiflex Minor’s spacious chamber is empty, save for two figures. The waning light of the sun comes through the high-set panel windows in feeble rays. Two torches burn in the center of the room. The Pontiflex Minor himself sits on his throne, a shadowed figure kneeling in front of him.
“My spies tell me he’s making his way toward Zweissergrund,” the Pontiflex Minor says.
The shadowed figure nods.
“The spell is constructed so that you shall have seventy-one bellchimes in this world to accomplish your deed,” the Pontiflex Minor continues, “should you fail to do as I ask within that timeframe, you will be sent screaming back to that place from whence you were summoned. Do you wish to return there?”
The shadowed figure shakes his head.
“If you are able to succeed, I have the power to allow you to remain here indefinitely. Do you understand what I’m asking you to do?”
The shadowed figure nods once again.
“Kill Zanther Maus and anyone who might be traveling with him, and bring his map to me.”
The shadowed figure’s face is covered with black rags, his yellow eyes shine through a slit in the tattered strips of cloth. The figure raises his head, these yellow eyes locking upon those of the Pontiflex Minor.
“It shall be done,” the shadowed figure hisses.
The butler leads Zanther and Novanostrum into Slotterhaus’ office, where a red-faced Madra and a nervous D’kassar are standing in front of the Mayor’s desk.
Slotterhaus shoots his butler an angry look. “You’re supposed to screen my visitors. So far it seems you just let every beggar off the street right in here unannounced!”
The butler shrugs and walks back to the doorway.
“I refuse to be your concubine,” Madra says, “you’ve got a lot of pluck’n’verve talking to me like that. I’m a queen. With a few words, I could have this little backwater burgh burned to ashes!”
“Hey, Madra,” Zanther mumbles.
Still seated behind his desk, Sotterhaus regards his new guests’ dirty clothes briefly, and focuses his attention back on Madra.
“I don’t see any soldiers around here, little girl--aside from my own, I mean.”
Novanostrum chooses this moment to interject. “Mister Slotterhaus, yes? We’re here looking for an ex-monk we were told might be around here. Also, just for the record, she is a queen. Just a really bitchy one.”
“I think I’m the one you’re looking for,” D’kassar says, meekly.
“Novanostrum!” Madra shouts, “Burn this place to the ground!”
Zanther, still drunk, looks around. “Shouldn’t we get out of it first? Yeah?”
Slotterhaus nods at the butler, who gestures to a few guards who suddenly appear, blocking the doorway. Novanostrum looks them over, then shifts his gaze to Slotterhaus.
“Listen, buddy. I’ve had one hell of a bad day so far. First it was these lizard people trying to eat me, then it was this temple full of jibber-jabbering lunatics. Now there’s this hormonal whore-queen screaming at me and this bald little pimple of a man--you--threatening me with your toy soldiers. I feel a headache coming on. You know what happens when a Wizard of the Third Circle gets a headache?”
As he says this, the drapes catch fire and the walls start shaking. Slotterhaus sees this and reevaluates the situation.
“You know, I think we got off on the wrong foot there, all of us. How about this: I’ll open a tab for all of you at the pub, and you all can stay here as my guests tonight. I’m sure you’ll want to be on your way in the morning, yes?”
“Absolutely,” Zanther says, putting an arm around the still-fuming Madra and turning to lead her out of the room.
They file out of Slotterhaus’ office and down the stairs leading to the main entrance. Once outside, Madra, Novanostrum, Zanther, and D’kassar head in the direction of the pub. After walking for a few ticks, they encounter a very ragged and tattered Professor Sogbottom haggling with a salesman over the price of a small wagon and a horse. After the salesman walks away, Madra introduces everyone to the Professor.
“What the High Hell
happened to you, man?” Zanther asks.
“’Twas that damned yeti. I was lucky to ‘scape with my life.”
“Well, we’re all going to have drinks, courtesy of the Mayor,” Madra says, “I’m sure he won’t mind buying a few extras, should you care to join us.”
“Sounds refreshing.”
He’s clothed entirely in black rags, hundreds of them tied together, the fabric stretching over his bulging, red-muscled body. Holding Slotterhaus up by the neck, the mayor can just barely make out two burning yellow eyes in the slit between the rags covering his face.
“They’ll all be staying here tonight,” he manages to sputter out before being dropped onto the floor.
Slotterhaus looks around his office in shock, but the intruder is gone. He spies his butler, standing at the door, motionless.
“Seriously, you just let anybody in here,” Slotterhaus says, dusting himself off.
The butler shrugs. “He seemed very eager to see you.”
They walk into the pub to find a large table cleared for them. A barwench takes their orders, and Zanther and Novanostrum sit on both sides of D’kassar, ready for business. Zanther slaps the map down on the table.
“We’ve heard this map is written in characters that can only be read by the ‘top-tier’ Nasonic Monks,” Novanostrum explains, “and we need to get into the temple so we can figure out what it says. We tried pounding on the door, but nobody answered.”
“Doesn’t surprise me--they probably didn’t hear you. Part of the training for becoming a Nasonic monk is to have your eardrums punctured before you are able to become a full-fledged member of the group, you know, to ‘avoid distraction’ or something. The rest of the training consists of learning to write those horrible little characters. There are all kinds of rules and it takes forever to learn how to do it properly. That’s why I left, actually. The ear thing would’ve been bad enough, but those little characters are murder.”
“Yeah, well,” Zanther says, “we need you to get us inside. There must be a secret tunnel or something.”
“Why?” D’kassar asks, “I can read it for you. Can’t write it worth a damn, but I can read it. All our sacred prayers and sacred threats were written in it, as were our toilet-scrubbing schedules.”
Zanther and Novanostrum exchange a glance.
“So what does it say?” Novanostrum asks.
D’kassar looks it over. “Well, it looks like it’s just an ordinary map of Upper Kleighton.”
“Yes, we can see that,” Novanostrum says, “turn it over--there’s writing on the back.”
“Oh, right,” D’kassar says, squinting at the characters, “let’s see, it says, ‘Six barrels of beer, smokeweed, prophylaxis, leg of yafbeest.’ Yes, that’s what this part says.”
Zanther nods, considering the revelation. He turns to Novanostrum. “Do you think it’s a recipe for a magick potion?”
“I think the map’s creator was a drunk who wrote a shopping list on it. What else does it say?”
D’kassar continues reading. “Ah, here it is, ‘In the second house, in the House of the Gods, where the bull charges the sea,’ and...that’s it. That’s all it says.”
“Where the bull charges the sea?” Madra asks, “What the High Hell is that supposed to mean?”
Zanther smacks his face. “I’m so stupid. The drunk I won the map off of, he was this deaf priester who gambled away his church. ‘The House of the Gods’ is probably his church in Port San-torus.”
“San-torus,” Novanostrum says, “Taurus, the Bull. It makes sense.”
The Professor nods. “Actually, I’m on my way there. The traders have all the ingredients I use to brew my Good-tyme Tonick. Should you wish to accompany me, I shall be departing in the morning.”
The door to Zanther’s room creaks open, and he immediately thrusts the sword into the mass atop the bed, only to be hit by a shower of feathers.
Pillows.
Hearing the commotion in the room next door, Zanther and Madra quickly get dressed and slip out the window and onto the roof of the veranda, taking turns dropping (un)gracefully to the ground below.
Novanostrum investigates the noises, flinging open the door only to be greeted by a flock of metal projectiles zipping towards him at extreme velocities. He steels himself, and the sharp weapons bounce off his body and clang onto the hardwood floor. He turns his attention to the daemon assassin charging at him with an edge weapon in-hand, something on the order of a scimitar but with extra angles and points protruding from it in various places.
The wizard raises his staff, conjuring a fireball and flinging it at the daemon, but the daemon produces his own fireball of green High Hellfire with a sweep of his arm. The two fireballs smash together, causing the room to explode.
Novanostrum is blasted through the window and onto the cold ground next to where Madra and Zanther are standing. At the end of the street, they notice Sogbottom packing his new wagon with supplies he is apparently stealing from a closed shop. The two of them each grab one of Novanostrum’s arms and rush toward the wagon.
Sogbottom recognizes the three figures hurrying down the street. “Time to go, is it?”