The Skeleton King's Crypt
On the eastern shores of the great Steaming Sea there once lay a humble town called Sandpoint. An unremarkable town in many ways, it was a peaceful waypoint for travelers' and merchants making their way along the Coast Road. But all, Spruce thought grimly has he gripped the handle of his father's old longsword, rendering his knuckles white in the process, cannot always be good. For outside of town, and past the outlying farmsteads, was an unrelenting wilderness, moors and forests and rocky plateaus that remained untamed, the home of monsters and beasts and fiendish things.
And out here, at the edge of the wilderness, Spruce stood at the base of a desolate, rocky hillside, rethinking the decisions that had led him to the darkened entrance of the tunnel before him, with nothing but a battered suit of chainmail and an aging longsword with which to defend himself. He was the son of a simple blacksmith, and not a warrior of renown; scarcely old enough to enlist in the town guard, the weapon still foreign in his hand, a young man better acclimated to the art of learning than the coldness of battle.
And yet here I am, Spruce reflected, choking down the panic arising in his throat. When he raised his hand to volunteer, the older men had laughed at him; but Kendra Deverin, the wily mayor of Sandpoint, passed up the experienced hands to select Spruce for this mission. And so he had come, hiding his uncertainty beneath a veneer of brashness.
The monsters rarely came out of the wilderness, emerging only in the darkened cover of the blackest nights; but lately, the raids had become more frequent, more bold. One farmstead after another was hit, losing a sheep here, a cow there, until a young child was snatched up under the skies of twilight.
Spruce looked up at the cloudy sky, hoping take a last glimpse of brilliant blue before descending into the darkness, but only gray stared back at him.
Spruce loosened his fingers and cracked one knuckle before gripping the sword tight again, and with the weapon in one hand and a torch in the other, he stepped forward, crossing the threshold with one foot and then the other. The tunnel was narrow, but wide enough for him to navigate; and the flickering light of the torch illuminated the cracks and crevices of the rocky walls around him. Within a few steps, the light from the entrance faded into nothing more than a faint glow.
Spruce took a deep breath and pressed inward, exhaling slowly as he walked. Within a minute—a minute or so, he figure, not really certain of how much time had passed—the corridor opened up, and with the light of the torch projecting ahead, Spruce could see the passageway opening into a small room. Stepping gingerly forward, his torch and sword before him, Spruce entered.
There, in the corner of his left eye, he detected movement; and he spun around to face it, even as the pile of rags leapt up, revealing a watermelon-shaped head with warty green skin and large pointed ears. Its clothing—for the rags were its clothing—were filthy and covered with bloodstains. One of the creature's hands held a meaty legbone, and the other held a wicked-looking short sword.
Spruce blanched as the goblin cackled and charged, casting aside the legbone and swinging the sword at Spruce's midsection. Only a quick reflex saved Spruce as he jumped back, the goblin's sword slashing through the space that Spruce had occupied scarcely a moment before. Off-balance, but startled into the fight, Spruce let loose with a clumsy swipe of his own, forcing the goblin to terminate its charge.
Both swords now raised, the two combatants stared at each other for an elongated second before the goblin cackled again and charged forward, having sensed the indecision on the part of Spruce. Moving desperately, Spruce parried the goblin's sword thrust with his torch, nearly setting the smaller creature alight in the process, and he lunged forward with his own sword leveled, plunging the blade deep into the goblin's chest. The goblin slumped to the ground, snarling with pain as Spruce withdrew his sword amid the spurting torrents of blood, and the creature's bulbous eyes sank shut as it fell into silence.
Spruce could barely believe it. He was no stranger to death—no one really could be, living in his time and age—but until now, the largest creature he had killed had been a bushy rat that had infested the inn's storeroom.
Doing his best to avoid the still-spurting blood, Spruce cast aside the goblin's short swords and searched the pockets of its tattered clothing. He found nothing, but a filthy pouch on the creature's belt held seven gold pieces and a small glass vial filled with red liquid. On the cap was written the word "heal."
Spruce breathed a sigh of relief, taking strange solace in the presence of the potion of healing, and pocketed it and the coins.
Rising to his feet, Spruce took a moment to survey the room. It was a small chamber, maybe ten feet in diameter with haphazardly circular walls, and two corridors branched out to the left and to the right. On the right, the corridor was full of cobwebs and dust; to the left, the corridor smelled of hay and mold, but was clear of webs. With no other clear direction, Spruce opted for the left corridor.
The not-so-subtle smell of mold permeated the corridor, growing stronger with each step Spruce took into the torch-lit darkness. It was a narrow tunnel, scarcely wide enough for two youths to walk abreast; and Spruce held the torch and his sword out in front of him, awkwardly navigating the shallow twists of the passageway as it round itself forward. The flickering light illuminated cracks and crevices in the walls, along with shallow depressions that virtually glowed black. Shuddering, Spruce pulled himself back, hugging the opposite wall each time the tell-tale glow emerged from the shadows.
Spruce gasped a sigh of relief as he saw the end ahead, and after fifty or so feet of the claustrophobic corridor, the torch lit up a simple wooden door that stood ajar; through the opening, Spruce could see a room beyond. With little patience—eager to be done with the passageway—he pushed the door aside with the battered hilt of his longsword and entered the room beyond.
It was a small space, no larger than the main room of a farmer's hovel; smoothened stone lined the walls and ceiling, worn over by the millennia, and a thickened bed of hay lay beneath his feet. In the far corner was a large cage, embedded into the surrounding rock; burly bars of iron sealed it off, cloaking the interior in shadow. It was smell, more than sight, which told Spruce of the moldy hay and refuse that lay inside the cage.
The torchlight flickered in the room, casting vibrations of light around him as Spruce scurried forward, unheedful of the potential for danger that lurked around him; for in the shadows, between the bars, he could see the huddled body of a child lying on the floor of the cage.
"Hey, you!" Spruce hissed as he neared the iron cage, uncertain if the prisoner was alive or dead until the child lifted his head. "Are you okay?"
The boy—for it was a boy—slowly raised his head from the matted hay and blinked repeatedly in the intrusive light of the torch. His face was dirty, and covered with bruises. "Thank the Furies!" he croaked through cracked and bloodied lips, the corners of his mouth barely able to move into a smile. "Please let me out of here! I just want to go home!"
Spruce breathed a sigh of relief. "Just a moment, okay?" he whispered, not wanting to make much noise. He only belatedly glanced around the room to ensure that they were alone, and breathed again when he saw that no goblins lurked in the recesses. It had been foolish of him to dart into the room without checking first.
The room was otherwise empty, except for a metal rack that hung to the left of the cage. To his delight, Spruce saw that from one hook hung a dull, metallic key; curiously, the only other item, held upright in the rack, was a thickened wooden rod topped off with a round ball of lusterless iron. Almost entranced, Spruce reached out and grabbed the weapon first; the wood was worn smooth, with nicks and cuts etched into the haft. An experimental sweep of the mace indicated that the weapon was slightly unbalanced, but overall usable; and it was a little shorter than the morningstars carried by several members of the town guard. Perhaps just right for a goblin, he thought.
The captive boy's sobbing brought Spruce back into the moment. Grabbing the key, Spruce quickly located the padlock holding the iron bars in place, and jammed the key in with little finesse; it clanked slightly, but went in, and a twist of the wrist unlocked the device.
The boy slowly rose to his feet, having to hunch over as he crawled from the cage before he was able to straighten his back. A loud chorus of crackling noises resounded through the cavern as the boy stood tall for the first time in days. "Thank you!" the boy said again, his voice weak and cracking. He staggered forward, one foot at a halting time as stiff muscles were forced to work again.
Spruce could think of nothing to say, so he nodded in acknowledgement as the boy experimentally flexed. "Are you here to slay the Skeleton King?" the boy asked, still struggling to form the sounds with his cracked lips.
Spruce stiffened; he had been told nothing about a Skeleton King.
The boy seemed to notice Spruce's hesitation and continued. "There's something deeper in the dungeon," he went on, his voice wavering. "The goblin was terrified of it. He called in the Skeleton King."
The goblin was scared of it? Spruce couldn't help but shudder at the thought; in his own way, he had been petrified by the goblin. The thought of something worse.
The boy, limping slightly, took off down the passageway, and Spruce irrationally cursed the boy for leaving him alone. But no matter, Spruce thought, trying to steel the courage in the knowledge that he had to continue. His mission, specifically, had been to rescue the boy; but he knew that he couldn't leave without investigating this Skeleton King. At a bare minimum, he needed to bring back information for the older, more experienced hands of the town guard, and a part of him wanted to see their faces if he slew the creature. If. If it didn't slay him instead.
Spruce gulped once, then twice, and slid his father's battered longsword into the belt of his worn chainmail. The mace, undersized though it was, seemed to be the sturdier of the two weapons. With his torch held aloft, Spruce cautiously made his way back through the tunnel, weaving his way in the twists and turns, until he reached the central junction. There was only one other path—one other unexplored route—for him to go, down the filthy, cobweb-laden corridor across from him.
Before him, the corridor made a straight path for thirty or so feet; and the flame beating from the torch head make quick work of the larger cobwebs, consuming them in virtual flashes of flame that lit and snuffed out instantaneously as the combustible silk flamed out of existence. His feet crept forward, following a slightly downward angle, until the passageway entered a steady, leftward turn, digging deeper into the hillside; and it continued another twenty feet or so before depositing Spruce into a large chamber.
This new chamber was larger than the previous one, occupying a space approximately twenty feet in diameter and ten feet in height. Clad in the requisite spiderwebs, the only object in the cavern stood against the left wall. It was a demon—or something like a demon, Spruce thought, not really sure of what he was looking at. Either way, it made him shudder. The full-bodied statue stood six feet tall, and closely resembled a devilish skeleton clad in a breastplate and toga; two upswept wings were tucked in behind the body. The face leered with an ugly, toothy grin, and two horns emerged from the top of the skull, rising up before sweeping backward with bony ridges.
The torchlight flickered again as Spruce's hand wavered with fright, and he kept a close eye on the statue as he edged past it. Across the room was an open doorway, with two thickened sheets of wood standing ajar; beyond it, the dimming light illuminated the top of a flight of stairs, descending deeper into the dungeon. Steadying his hand, Spruce moved towards the doorway—
And his foot caught a tripwire.
Two great spouts of flame erupted from the skeleton demon's eyes, pouring outward with heat and fire. Desperately, Spruce twisted his body backward, losing grip of the torch as he sought to brace his fall; it clunked to the floor and rolled into a corner, where it set ablaze a collection of cobwebs.
The two eye-spurts of flame dissipated moments later as Spruce lay on the stone floor, his nostrils filled with the acrid stench of his own singed hair.
That was too close, Spruce thought, setting aside his mace momentarily to prop himself up. His left hand—he had landed on the heel of the palm—nearly crumpled beneath him, shooting arcing pain up his arm and down to his fingertips. With a howl, he lifted it back up; the pain subsided, and the experimental flexing of his fingertips brought back only a manageable burst of discomfort.
In that moment, Spruce found his instincts warring within him; the near-brush with death, and the resulting sprained wrist, screamed within, delivering conflicting messages of their own. One part, a desperate part, wanted to turn and flee from the caverns. Another, the petrified part, wanted to hug the rocky floor and not move, perhaps to stay there for eternity. And a sense of duty bellowed over those, reminding him that he had a mission to accomplish and a task to perform; and that others were relying on him to cleanse these caves of their monstrous spawn.
Spruce gulped again, having to dig deep within to find the strength needed to rise to his feet; he bent over low, but no additional spouts of flame erupted outward from the demonic skeleton statue. With a wavering hand, he retrieved the still-burning torch.
Pausing at the opened wooden doors, Spruce held the light ahead, hoping to catch a better glimpse of the descending passageway beyond. It was common knowledge—at least, it was common belief—that these underground warrens grew more dangerous the deeper a person ventured.
The ancient stone stairs were slick with moisture, and Spruce picked his way down carefully, watching each and every foot placement as he traveled deeper. The steps were shallow and rounded, and twice his foot nearly slipped forward from beneath him; but each time, Spruce caught his footing, and after taking a deep breath, continued downward.
At the foot of the stairs, the passageway opened up into another large, natural cavern, this one filled with stalactites and stalagmites, some so large as to form columns from the floor to the ceiling. Carved out by many long centuries of dripping water, Spruce's torchlight reflected on shallow pools of water that lay scattered beneath his feet. Uncertain of the danger, Spruce stepped carefully around the puddles, suspecting the worst of them. Here and there, patches of yellow fungus clung to the stone floor.
As Spruce navigated his way around the standing water, he found himself confronted with a quandary: his chosen path narrowed between a pool on the right and fungus on the left, leaving him no choice between. He frowned and paused, his foot hovering in midair above the fungus; he was deeply suspicious of the puddles of water, but something about the fungus triggered a thought in the back of his mind.
It's fungus, Spruce realized at last, mentally slapping himself for the non-descriptive thought. In particular, it was a deadly fungus, a yellow-colored mold that lay harmlessly until it was disturbed; but when disturbed, the fuzzy lichens could release millions of poisonous spores that would choke and sicken hapless wanderers.
Spruce drew his foot back, happy for the last-second saving thought. Gritting his teeth, he slowly set the ball of his right foot into the pool of water, making as little contact as possible; and when nothing bad happened, he let his heel descend as well, until he stood ankle-deep in the wetness. Letting out a deep breath, Spruce quickly made his way through to dry stone; and his path once again clear, Spruce crossed to a large crack in the far wall, the only apparent exit from the cavern.
As he neared the crack, Spruce saw that it was indeed a passageway; from somewhere within, a flickering light illuminated the narrow corridor, and twisting his body to one side, Spruce made his way down, chest squeezed by the two pressing walls of rock on either side. It was a tight fit, and his battered chainmail clanked several times as he sucked in his breath and pushed onward.
As Spruce contorted his way through the tunnel, the flickering light ahead became stronger; and finally, swearing that he heard a popping sound, Spruce emerged into a huge chamber, easily the largest in the underground system. With a tall ceiling arching overhead, the far wall lay more than thirty feet across, and the stone floor was worn smooth with the passage of time.
But Spruce's attention was focused elsewhere.
Around the perimeter of the room were eight torches, evenly spaced and blazing brightly, lighting up a small platform on the far side. Atop the platform loomed a throne embossed in gold, decorated with glittering diamonds and rubies; and sitting in the throne was a skeleton, dressed in the ancient and rusted armor of a king. In one hand, the skeleton clasped an upright longsword; the weapon glowed with a faint aura of blue.
The skeleton's head turned towards Spruce, bony sockets grating as they moved, and the empty eye sockets erupted with red flame; the king's jaw opened into a horrible smile, and as it spoke, it pointed the glowing longsword directly at Spruce. "So," it rasped, its voice sounding like two stones scraping together. "Your pitiful town has sent a—champion." A harsh laughter echoed from somewhere within. "How nice of them."
Spruce set his own torch aside, using only the corner of his eye to prop it against the wall as his pupils stayed glued on the Skeleton King; pointing his own sword, a decrepit piece of aging, dull metal, Spruce felt naked and small by comparison.
The Skeleton King laughed again, and it rose from its throne, raising the point of its glowing longsword as if preparing for a sweeping attack. Spruce gulped again, and instinctively—as if acting on some long-forgotten lesson—he cast his own sword to one side, clattering across the stone floor. His fingers desperately sought out the undersized mace secured in his belt, and with success, he pulled it forward, wavering it in front of his face.
With a bellowing hiss, the Skeleton King charged forward, both hands on the hilt of his own weapon; and he swung it with fury, slicing through the air as Spruce dove to the right, feeling the breeze as the sword passed above his head. Scrambling to his feet, Spruce brought the mace to his forefront, just in time to parry another sweeping blow from the Skeleton King, and the creature hissed in frustration as the deflected sword rattled with impact.
Seeing only the smallest of openings, Spruce lashed out, and the heavy head of the mace crashed down on the Skeleton King's hands. Howling, the King yanked one arm back, recoiling from the impact; but the arm's hand fell to the floor, the wrist shattered into shards and dust.
The Skeleton King, now furious, charged in, slicing his blade through the air, and Spruce dove aside again; the sword cleaved downward, slashing through space just vacated by the diving target. A second furious slash followed closely, and Spruce, barely rising to his hands and knees, felt the blunt impact of the sword's blade on his lower back. The chainmail held, but barely; a second shot in the same place would shatter the aging armor.
Wielding the small mace in his right hand, Spruce rose to his knees, twisting his body and swinging the weapon like a bat. It smashed into the Skeleton King, shattering the being's hip and throwing the King off-balance.
Scrambling to his feet, Spruce waved the mace before him. The opening again was small, but Spruce saw it; and staggering forward, he swung the weapon mightily. Bone gave way before it as the mace crashed through the Skeleton King's chest, shattering ribs and smashing the backbone. The momentum of the swing carried Spruce clear around, throwing him to the floor.
The Skeleton King gasped once, as if seeking to draw air into long-gone lungs, and its bones cracked and crumbled from within; the weight of its ancient armor crashed downward, pulling fragile bone down with it, and the skull hit last. Spruce watched, spellbound, as the undead corpse crumbled to dust. Moments later, all that remained was rusty armor and a still-glowing longsword.
Sucking in air, Spruce searched his body frantically, shocked that he was still intact; he, Spruce, had survived the encounter! He was uncertain of how that was even possible, and he sank to one knee, eyeing the pile of bone-dust carefully; but it did not move, it did not reassemble.
Spruce concentrated on his breath, forcing it into a steady rhythm. His chest, strained from combat, hurt with the effort, but the pain felt good. His wrist, though sprained, was still functional, the ache subsiding gradually.
And as he steadied, Spruce took another glance around the room, eyeing the glowing longsword with special care. As he crossed the cavern to the golden throne, he stepped around the longsword with great care, hesitant to touch such a weapon.
The golden throne was cold to his touch, but Spruce had expected nothing less from the archaic chair of the Skeleton King. The gold, Spruce thought, was worth quite a bit; but he lacked any means of carrying the throne from the Skeleton King's chamber. He stroked his chin once as he thought.
The jewels, Spruce realized. The throne was heartily covered with clear diamonds and red rubies. Spruce diligently checked each jewel, using fingernails to pry out the loosened stones. When complete, his pocket was heavier by the weight of four diamonds and six rubies.
Finally, the sword.
I can't just leave it, Spruce knew. It was a proper sword; it was a fighter's sword; and he had earned it.
With trepidation, he reached out, touching the hilt once, then twice, and withdrawing his hand quickly; finally, the third time, he grasped it firmly and picked up the exquisite weapon. Marveling at it, he took a few experimental swings, and the longsword nearly whistled through the air. It was perfectly weighted for him!
And the blade itself still glowed blue…Spruce touched it carefully, and suddenly gasped. The blade was cold! It must be magical, he realized as he pulled his fingertips away. The blade had absorbed the heat from his hand, but still glowed equally blue. It's resistant to heat, he reckoned, wondering just how much heat the weapon could absorb. I'll call it…Firesbane.
But that's for another day. It was time for Spruce to leave, and with his pocket heavy with newfound gems, he made his way back to Sandpoint, arriving in the early evening hours. The rescued boy had arrived before him, and as Spruce entered the city gate, the townsfolk cheered him all the way to the Rusty Dragon Tavern and Inn. There, he sat down to a veritable feast, courtesy of the tavern keeper, a beautiful young woman named Ameiko Kaijitsu; and as he regaled the growing assembly with the tale of his victory, the mayor arrived with a bulging sack containing his reward of 100 gold pieces.
Later the following day, while Spruce rested at the Inn, a local merchant visited to inspect the gemstones; and he bought the four diamonds for 400 gold pieces and the six rubies for 300 gold pieces.
Maybe heroic adventurer is the life for me…