October 15th, 973
The last skeleton toppled under a burst of silver fire and shattered across the stone. In the settling haze, five figures stood framed in the corridor—bloodied, breathing hard, but unmistakably in control of the situation they had just charged into.
Captain Alaric Vale stepped forward first. Tall, broad-shouldered, and composed even after battle, he lowered his longsword Resolute with a practiced flick that sent bone fragments scattering from the fuller. His storm-blue cloak was torn, but he stood as neatly as if presenting himself at inspection.
“That’s the lot of them,” he said calmly. “More are gathering. Move.”
He spoke not like a man issuing commands, but like someone politely informing a river which direction it ought to flow.
Shamus dragged Ironbark upright just as a stocky dwarf barreled into view, beard swinging, mail jingling like an angry windchime.
“Out of the way, lad!” Brother Caldus Ironbrow boomed. “I’ve got a friend here in the process of dying, and that interrupts my afternoon plans.”
Wolfgang lay half-crumpled on the stones nearby. Caldus knelt beside him, uncorked a pewter flask, sniffed it approvingly, and splashed some on Wolfgang’s face.
“It’s holy water,” he said, then whispered loudly, “or close enough for government work.”
A dim silver light sparked across his fingers. Wolfgang gasped, blinked, and groaned.
“I feel awful,” he muttered.
“That means it’s working,” Caldus replied cheerfully.
Alaric motioned sharply down the corridor. “This way. Quickly.”
The party descended the ladder from the platform and followed the Argent Company across the facility floor—Caldus now half-carrying Wolfgang like a stubborn sack of potatoes.
The Argent Company led the group through a tangle of halls into a chamber clearly serving as their makeshift base. Bedrolls lay in tidy rows along the walls. Packs were stacked with almost military precision. A narrow, fast-flowing stream cut the room from wall to wall, its restless energy a sharp contrast to the sluggish trickles the party had seen elsewhere.
Beyond the stream, a dark shaft yawned—a rough-cut passage down to the next level. A large crack ran along the far wall with water running out of it; mute testimony that, no matter how skilled the builders, everything eventually comes to an end.
Alaric dropped the bar across the only door, a battered thing heavily braced with crates and ancient stone. “Horseshoe formation.”
His companions moved at once. Kael of Bren, tall as a boundary stone, took position directly before the door, shield angled to catch whatever might push through. His expression was still, unreadable, almost serene.
Lira Vance slipped into the shadows along one wall, twin shortswords angled low and ready, posture loose but eyes sharp. Serafine Dour strode to the second line, adjusting her spectacles and tapping her ashwood staff lightly against the floor as if waking the room itself.
Caldus, having judged Wolfgang alive enough to wobble, shoved both him and Ironbark toward the stream. “Sit. Drink. No arguing. The next one who argues will discover I pray at full volume.”
Finally, Alaric gestured to the party. “You—join up. Non-spellcasters in the first rank and spellcasters behind. No gaps.”
The faint echo of clattering bone sounded somewhere outside the door.
Then stopped.
No movement followed.
Only silence—dense, expectant, and unnervingly complete.
Alaric sheathed his longsword Resolute with a soft metallic sigh.
“Well,” he said, “that is either encouraging or deeply concerning.”
Introductions began in low voices while Kael and Lira kept their eyes on the door.
Alaric’s handshake was firm without dominance—respect offered, not demanded. “Captain Alaric Vale. Argent Company. Your stand back there was well made.”
Kael bowed his head in solemn greeting. “Kael of Bren. Order is preserved when the steadfast stand together.”
Lira snorted softly. “He means hello, in Paladin,” she explained. “I’m Lira. Scout. Arrows. Bad ideas. I specialize in rescuing people who shouldn’t have gotten into trouble in the first place.”
Serafine offered a more scholarly nod. “Serafine Dour. Wizard. Researcher. Historian. Purveyor of recreational fire-based solutions.”
Wolfgang smiled. “We have that in common.”
Brother Caldus thumped his chest. “Caldus Ironbrow, priest and dispenser of holy beverages. If you’re wounded, yell for me. If I’m wounded, someone else yell for me. If we’re all wounded—well, then someone had better yell impressively.”
For the first time since Ironbark’s eyes had glowed red, the party’s shoulders eased.
Time passed. Still no skeletons.
The two groups settled into a comfortable defensive posture. Caldus ladled out bowls of stew. Lira passed around tin cups. The smell of cracked pepper and something that might once have been onion drifted through the chamber.
Gradually, conversation emerged—at first in murmurs, then louder as trust grew.
They spoke first of maps. The Argent Company had explored the parts the party hadn’t—what appeared to be a wastewater tract along the northern part of the second level. When they spread out their sketches together, inked lines overlapped and filled gaps until they had, between them, a near-complete blueprint of the first two levels.
“That explains it, then,” Wolfgang said, studying the inked lines. “We went to the drinking water side on the south while you went to the wastewater side on the north.”
Lira nodded. “Your side smells better. Ours smells… educational.”
Ant asked, “And what about the creepy ten-second long scream that we heard when we were on the first level? Did you hear that too?”
Argent Company exchanged glances. Kael answered. “We did,” he said. “Just as we were about to descend.” He jerked his thumb toward the dark shaft beyond the stream. “We took it as a sign to postpone that particular plan and see what happened next.”
Serafine picked up the story.
“We heard movement afterward—footsteps, stonework shifting. We assumed it was monsters and decided we’d rather meet them with that door between us and them.” She nodded toward the barricaded entrance. “It wasn’t until we heard your voices, and the fighting, that we realized there was another company down here.”
“And the skeletons never troubled you?” Hunkle asked.
“No,” Lira said. “We heard them rattle once or twice, but they never came close. I’ve no idea why.”
That, inevitably, led to talk of the Sereth—though Argent Company had not yet met it.
Shamus, Cassyndra, Lavleen, and Merrythought described the encounter: Ironbark’s sudden stillness, the alien cadence in his familiar voice, the courteous promises of riches and power in exchange for being released upon the world.
Serafine listened intently, amber eyes sharp.
“That fits,” she said at last. “The Righteous War was an extinction struggle on both sides. Orcs and Archeans alike turned to horrors when armies and prayers failed.”
“Demons?” Shamus asked.
“Many times,” Serafine replied. “But only under very specific conditions. The demons killed anything they could reach, so they were used in places like this—fortified, contained, full of enemies and empty of friends. You send the thing in, wall the doors, and wait for the screaming to stop.”
Caldus took a thoughtful sip from his flask. “Comforting.”
Laveleen frowned. “Was the Sereth ever used again after that war?”
Serafine shook her head.
“Not in any official account. I imagine the spell still exists… locked in some military vault, or buried under enough secrecy to choke a basilisk. But no, nothing publicly. And nothing about… ending one.”
Merrythought leaned forward. “So there’s no way to banish it?”
“None that I’ve ever heard of,” Serafine admitted. “And I made a point to look.”
The silence that followed was not frightened—these were not easily frightened people—but it was heavy. It was the quiet shared by those who have finally seen the outline of the thing they’re standing in front of.
The Pact
When the meal was finished and the air remained quiet, Alaric rose.
He looked around at the two circles of weary survivors—shaken, bruised, but steadier for having found one another.
“We’ve all bled in this place,” he said. “We’ve all lost something to the Sereth—certainty, safety, time. What we gain now is each other.”
He drew a circle in the dust with his fingertip.
“One enemy. One map. One path forward. We stand a better chance as allies than as two splintered bands hoping for luck.”
He offered his hand.
“Fifty-fifty between the parties on treasure. Decisions by consensus. Shared dangers, shared rewards.”
Shamus took the hand first. Merrythought followed. Then Hunkle, Laveleen, Ant, Wolfgang, Cassyndra, Gareth, and Ironbark.
Kael placed his gauntleted hand atop the pile. “Order stands where unity stands.”
Caldus wedged his hand in next. “And ale will follow when unity’s done.”
Lira added hers, smirking. “I’ll make sure none of you fall into holes.”
Finally Serafine touched her fingers to the circle. “And I suppose I’ll make sure nothing explodes that shouldn’t.”
Alaric nodded once—firm, satisfied.
“Then we find our way out together.”
Two companies.
One purpose.
And the darkness waiting for them both.