Roderick
“I know why you seek the lost city of Xulthar,” the old crone said as she peered over the top of her crystal ball. “But the riches you find there shall bring you naught but evil and sorrow.”
Roderick the Young of House Valtan rolled his shoulders back as his sharp eyes scanned the fortune teller from head to toe. His broad hand unconsciously brushed the hilt of his sword, which had seen more use than most of its kind. Unlike most of the noble born these days, his boots were worn and caked with dust, his arms bronzed, his face lined and weathered from the wind of the open road—a testament to the hard times that had befallen his house. But Roderick was not one to let the whims of fate define him.
“What do you mean, old woman? Speak your prophecy.”
The robes of the haggard old sibyl were faded and tattered, and over them she wore a threadbare shawl as old and gray as herself. A woman of her profession could easily amass a small fortune spinning false and flattering tales—all the more so for the curse that multiplied the coin of liars and cheats, and shrank it for honest men. Indeed, this very soothsayer could be putting on a sham, her wealth discreetly hidden beneath a facade of beggary and dearth.
But Roderick did not think so. He had carefully watched the old crone for several days, searching for any sign of deceit. Now, inside her tent, he had even more opportunity to scrutinize her. Everything he saw convinced him that she was, indeed, an honest prophetess, for only an honest one could be this poor.
“You bear little resemblance to the other young adventurers who seek the riches of Xulthar,” the old crone cackled. “Unlike those other fools who greedily seek the city, you are a man of honor in an honorless world—a soul cast adrift by the cruel winds of fate, through no failing of your own. Your father—”
“If I wanted honeyed words, I would have gone to one of the popular soothsayers with their silk tents and their gilded tongues. Do not try to butter me up, old hag—I have no appetite for obsequious lies.”
“Old hag?” the woman shrieked. “Your uncouth tongue will bring you no favors, young lord—though you did not need to seek me out to learn that. No, I perceive you have come to learn whether your efforts to restore your family’s honor will meet with success, or failure.”
“Aye,” said Roderick, inwardly pleased that the sibyl had divined the true nature of his quest. Still, he brooded impatiently as she peered into her crystal ball.
“Behold!” she began, her voice a deathly hiss that sent shivers coursing through his veins. “I see a city of unimaginable riches and treasure, guarded by an infernal force of the darkest sorcery. You will face this dark force, young Roderick of House Valtan, and uncover the truth behind your family’s demise.”
“And will I defeat it?” he asked, his blood running cold.
The old crone paused until the silence was nearly palpable. “If you do,” she answered at length, “it will not restore your house to its former glory, nor right the wrongs that you and your family have suffered.”
Her prophecy stabbed him like a dagger to the heart. Honor and duty compelled him to do all within his power to restore his family’s house, and nothing short of the riches of Xulthar would enable him to accomplish that now. To hear the sibyl prophesy that his quest would come to naught was almost enough to crush him.
“Will I fail, then?” he asked softly, refusing to give in to despair.
The sibyl clucked her tongue. “The future is not set in stone, young lord. You, not I, have the power to shape your own destiny.”
Roderick scowled. “I did not come into your tent to hear platitudes, old woman. Scry into your stone and tell me what will be if I defeat this dark sorcerer and seize the riches of Xulthar for my own.”
The crone’s eyes glinted in the dim candlelight as she stared once again into the depths of her crystal ball. “I see naught but a life of suffering and misery for you, my lord. Xulthar’s riches are cursed beyond measure. If you do not turn from this path, you will pay an immense cost for it, even if you prove victorious.”
“But if I do not take this path, then my house will never be restored and my family’s honor will be disgraced forever.”
“As you say, young lord.”
“And even if the cause of my house is truly hopeless,” he continued, hardly hearing her, “then for honor’s sake alone, I must avenge our fall.”
To that, the old crone said nothing.
“I must seek the city of Xulthar,” Roderick argued, clenching his calloused fist. “I have come too far and sacrificed too much to take the coward’s path and turn from my destiny. Tell me, woman, what must I do to prepare? What must I take with me to defeat the dark power that resides in the ruins of Xulthar?”
The sibyl consulted her stone. “You must remain true to your cause,” she counseled. “If you do not allow yourself to be swayed or tempted away, then fate will provide all that you need to defeat that dark power.”
“But even if I defeat it, the honor and wealth of my house will not be restored?”
The old crone nodded solemnly, her aged and wrinkled face softening with sympathy. “Beware, young lord! The evil that lurks within the ruins of Xulthar is so great that even I cannot foresee how your fate is intertwined with it. All I know is that defeating that great evil will not bring you the honor that you seek, nor will it restore your house to its former glory.”
Roderick grunted in grim resignation, and his eyes narrowed and hardened with resolve. “It is better to meet a star-crossed end with sword in hand than to take the coward’s path. If this is to be my destiny, I will not turn from it.”
He adjusted his scabbard and turned to leave. As soon as his back was turned, the crystal began to glow anew.
“There is something else,” the old crone prophesied, her gaze fixated on the vision within the ball. “I see a young woman, slender and fair…”
But Roderick had already stepped out of her sun-faded tent, his mind consumed with dark and brooding thoughts.
Roderick
The tavern was as dark and smokey as the hot afternoon sky was bright and clear. Roderick narrowed his eyes as he peered at the long, wooden tables, which were mostly unoccupied at this hour. A raven-haired wench was scrubbing the table nearest to him, her apron stained black with spilled food and drink. She stood as Roderick approached her.
“Milord,” she greeted him with a curtsy.
He ignored her for the moment as he scanned the hall. Three scrawny chickens were roasting on a spit over the coals in the fireplace, while behind the bar, a fat, balding barkeep mindlessly cleaned pewter mugs. A warm breeze blew through the unshuttered windows, only marginally cooling the air. Then his ears caught the sound of laughter, and in the far corner, he found the party he sought.
“My friends,” he muttered, pointing to the two men. The tavern wench nodded and smiled, and he passed her without another word.
“Rod!” said Andrej, slapping Roderick heartily on the back. “It’s good to see you, friend. Care for a drink?”
Roderick raised an eyebrow. “At this early hour?”
“Why not?” Jura said merrily from across the table. “Andrej is paying!”
“There, you are mistaken,” Andrej retorted with a mischievous smile. “Our beloved Lord Valtan is subsidizing our libations on this occasion, since it was he who called us to this council.”
Roderick suppressed a chuckle. He could always count on his old friends from the guard to lift his spirits. Andrej was tall and dashing, with long golden locks and a carefully trimmed mustache and goatee. As the youngest son of a successful yeoman, he sought his fortune by the sword, since he had no hope of an inheritance. Jura was about a head shorter than him, and more of a brawler than a swordsman, but his blue eyes shone with rare intelligence. His grin, half-hidden by his short, black beard, always made Roderick wonder if he knew more than he let on.
“Just as long as you don’t get drunk,” said Roderick. “We have important matters to discuss.”
“Ah,” said Jura with a twinkle in his eyes. “It may be too late for that, Lord.” He held out his mug, and the wench hurriedly refill it.
“‘Important matters,’ you say?” Andrej asked, leaning forward. “My dear friend, you do yourself a disservice if you think anything in this world is more important than good friends, good drink, and good women.” He smiled at the wench and held out his mug to her, and when she had finished filling it, he spanked her soundly, making her giggle.
Roderick drew a sharp breath. “Leave the girl alone.”
“Why?” Andrej laughed. “She enjoys it—don’t you, lass?”
“That depends on the size of your money pouch, milord,” she said slyly, tickling his chin.
“Ah, but which pouch?” Jura asked with a twinkle in his eye. “The one that carries his coin, or the one that carries the family jewels?”
As his friends enjoyed another merry laugh, Roderick’s hand instinctively went to the pouch of coins on his belt. He frowned—had it grown noticeably lighter since his visit with the old sibyl? He silently counted them with his fingers, and sure enough, the curse had wrought its work.
He pulled the wench aside and gave her a hard look. “My friends and I have matters to discuss,” he told her. She smiled nervously and scurried back to the bar.
“Ah, Rod,” said Jura, taking a swig of his ale. “Why are you always so somber? Can we not simply enjoy each other’s company for a while?”
Roderick scowled. “I did not call you here to drink me into the poorhouse. We are here to discuss our… pending expedition.”
“You mean our quest for the lost city of Xulthar?”
“Not so loud!” Roderick snapped, glancing anxiously around the room. But Jura and Andrej just laughed.
“Ah, Rod,” said Andrej, slapping him on the back once again. “We cannot ‘drink you into the poorhouse,’ because you are already there. Aren’t we all?”
“Indeed,” said Jura. “That is, until we find the riches of Xulthar.”
The old crone’s words came back to Roderick, about the riches of Xulthar bringing him naught but evil and sorrow. His scowl deepened, and he turned away.
“Some things are more important than riches.”
“You are correct, my lord,” Andrej said with a flourish. “But the wonderful thing about riches is that they can buy all of the truly important things. Like friends—”
“And drink,” Jura interjected.
“—and women,” Andrej finished. They laughed uproariously and saluted each other with their mugs high in the air.
“This is no laughing matter,” said Roderick, unamused. “Xulthar is a place of dark sorcery and grave danger. We must be cautious and keep our heads clear if we are to succeed.”
“Of course, of course,” Jura said dismissively. “But we have been planning this adventure for months, and all of the supplies have been procured.”
“And right now,” Andrej added, “we are enjoying our last libations before the dry and dreary desert makes teetotalers of us all!”
Andrej’s hedonistic merriment failed to warm Roderick’s heart. His apprehensions about the coming adventure and the words of the old sibyl still weighed too heavily on him. If he had no hope of success, even in victory, how could he ask his friends to join him?
“Are both of you sure you wish to accompany me?” he asked.
Andrej and Jura looked at him as if he had grown a third arm. “Of course, Rod,” said Jura. “Why would we turn around now?”
“Because of how lightly you seem to take this. Does it not disturb you that no one has returned from Xulthar alive?”
“My dear and dismal friend,” Andrej said cheerily, “why should such things bother us, when the same can be said of life itself? We all must take our dance with death, and in the end, the reaper always gets his due.”
“Aye,” said Jura, lifting his mug. “Better to face death on your feet, with a sword in your hand and friends at your side, and the prospect of boundless wealth if you survive.”
Roderick grunted in agreement, though he still couldn’t help but feel that his companions were taking things too lightly. Then again, the honor and future of their house was not at stake, as it was for him.
“That is good,” said Roderick, “but for me, it is not merely a question of treasure. It is a matter of honor.”
“Of honor?” said Andrej, raising an eyebrow. “What is ‘honor,’ if not the fleeting judgment of fools? Honor, ha! I would rather be shamed forever, and have my coffers full, than have all the honors and glory of the realm, and be penniless.”
“Aye,” Jura heartily concurred. “Honor is all well and good, but gold is all I’m after.”
“How can you say such things?” Roderick asked, suddenly animated with righteous vehemence. “Honor is not merely a title that a king or a prince bestows. It is something that burns within you—the star that guides your soul through the darkest night, the compass that directs you through the bleakest waste. I would rather lose everything else that I own, before I lose my honor!”
Andrej and Jura paused to look at each other. When they turned to Roderick again, their eyes were uncharacteristically sad.
“Rod,” said Andrej softly, “do you not remember the horror of the plague years? How many men of honor perished alongside the mean and contemptible alike?”
“Or how so many wicked men prospered at the expense of the weak and innocent?”
“I have not forgotten,” Roderick said somberly, remembering the old sibyl’s words: you are a man of honor in an honorless world—a soul cast adrift by the cruel winds of fate.
Andrej took a long drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I mean no offense, friend. But after all that I have seen, both in the guard and out of it, I have learned through sad experience that honor counts for little in this world.”
“So it does,” said Roderick. “But that does not mean it should not count for us.”
Jura eyed him curiously. “Well, one thing I will admit is that honor is no cheaper than life in this world. Better to die for honor’s sake than to live for nothing at all.”
And what if there is no cause in this godforsaken world worth dying for? Roderick could not help but silently wonder. He scowled again as he leaned over the wooden tabletop, brooding over his troubled thoughts.
Andrej sensed his growing melancholy and slapped him on the back. “Come now! Why should we trouble ourselves with such somber speech when our mugs are full, our horses are laden, and the greatest treasure in the world awaits the conclusion of our quest?”
“Hear, hear!” Jura concurred, taking a drink of his own.
Roderick forced a smile, but did not feel it. Still, for his friends, he cast aside his darker musings and focused on matters at hand.
“Let us talk of what we will face at Xulthar,” he said, leaning in close. “The city is guarded by a dark and sorcerous power, which we must defeat if we are to win the treasure. We will face not only physical challenges, but tests of our mind and soul.”
“Yes, yes,” Andrej said dismissively. “We all know that Xulthar is the seat of some upstart sorcerer.”
“It is said that all of the city’s inhabitants were slaughtered in a single day,” Roderick continued, ignoring him. “That power must still hold sway over the treasure, and will corrupt us just as surely as the coin of Xulthar—perhaps even more so. We must be vigilant and resist its allure.”
“Rod,” said Jura, “we know what we are up against. There are no greenhorns here.”
“Aye,” said Andrej, taking another swig of his ale. “We’ve been on plenty of dangerous ventures before. We can handle ourselves just fine.”
Roderick sighed again, feeling the weight of all his apprehensions pressing upon him. The words of the sibyl troubled him as well, but he did not feel that he could share that with his friends. More likely than not, they would simply mock him.
“Very well,” he said at length, “but we must be strong of will and clear of purpose. Our primary object is to defeat the forces of evil that infest the city and curse its treasure. Only then can we claim Xulthar’s riches for our own.”
There was a moment of silence as Andrej and Jura considered his words. Andrej spoke up, his voice suddenly filled with resolve.
“I understand, Rod. And I promise, I won’t let the curse of Xulthar get to me. Right, Jura?”
“Right,” said Jura, nodding.
Andrej turned back to Roderick and smiled. “You say that this quest is a matter of honor for you? Very well, then—let it be a matter of honor for us all. To restore your family’s name, we will ride with you to the cursed city and face whatever fate awaits us there.”
“Aye,” said Jura heartily. “And become the richest men in all the land.”
Andrej grinned and lifted his mug. “To Xulthar!”
“To Xulthar,” said Jura, clinking his mug against Andrej’s.
“To Xulthar,” Roderick muttered. But though his friends seemed confident, Roderick could not shake the feeling that they were on their way off to their doom.
