II. For Whom the Bell Tolls (Chapter One)

“You sure Sprinkles didn’t cast some spell on me?” groans Burt as the party steps back out into the street, now flooded with the crimson glow of the setting sun. “I sure feel light-headed.”

“I’d love to say you’re just plain lazy, Burt,” says Allard. “But really, you’re exhausted. Coming into this after all that fuss at the Shuffle. We’ve still a long way ahead, so you better take care of yourself.”

“Urgh, it’s not like you to be nice, Allard. Maybe Sprinkles did something to you. You sure Sprinkles will be okay holding those prisoners?”

“The correct question would be, ‘Will those prisoners be okay being held by Sprinkles?’, and the answer would be, ‘Better than being held by me’.”

You barely take a few steps when you hear a blaring horn from down the street.

“What’s that?” Burt says, leaping back in alarm.

The rhythmic thudding of countless footfalls approaches from the distance, and you turn to Allard in hopes of a hint at what might be happening. You think you see something golden and wispy shoot from Allard’s open palm, but you blink and think you imagined it. 

“Hold steady, minnows. This isn’t what I was expecting.”

Around the corner marches an army of heavily armored whiskers. Their gold-trimmed white and blue chest plates, adorned with a large cross at their necks, glint under the evening sun, and every one of them wields a hefty warhammer slung over their shoulder. They advance in near-perfect unison, and the cobblestoned street resonates with their footsteps. 

“Those are paladins, right?” says Burt. 

“Aye, it’s the Wisterian Holy Army,” growls Allard, his hand itching at the hilt of his claymore, “which can only mean one thing.”

In the center of the procession, a tall, silver chariot approaches, drawn by four armored horses. A stately whisker sits at the front of the chariot holding the reigns of the steeds, and, at the sight of you, Burt, and Allard, cue two hulking paladins who flank the front of the carriage. One raises an immense brass instrument to his lips and blows the rumbling fanfare you had heard before, while the other raises a fluttering banner on a silver flagpole. On the dark purple banner is a jagged crescent moon with the Wisterian coat of arms: an elaborate shield adorned with a jeweled crown and a pair of crossed warhammers. The chariot comes to a smooth halt before your party, and the door flings open.

“Your Majesty, Queen Moonfabias,” Allard says, lowering his head.

You and Burt look at each other in perplexity before you feel Allard’s wide hand at the back of your head, pulling you into a bow.

You look back up as a set of shimmering stairs materializes from the threshold of the carriage, and a whisker almost as tall as Allard proceeds towards you. On her head is a sparkling crown identical to the one on her banner, and she wears a set of billowing silken robes that glitter as they move. As she steps onto the street, she clacks her sapphire-topped staff sharply on the ground, and the magical stairway vanishes. 

“My, my, right on time,” Queen Moonfabias says.

Her deep, husky voice has a purr, not unlike that of a hungry wildcat.

“My sources were correct after all. The legendary Allard makes a return to our humble Wisteria.”

“We’re honored by this rare public appearance, Ma’am,” Allard says, finally straightening his back. “We were merely visiting an old friend. If I may beg your pardon, what alarming business brings you out here?”

“Don’t fret yourself, Allard. If you were meeting old acquaintances, then I daresay I am doing the same.” Queen Moonfabias’ beady eyes wander down to you and Burt. “Freshlings?”

“Aye, Ma’am. They’re a troublesome lot, but the Guild appreciates new blood.”

“A kingdom is naught without its subjects,” Moonfabias says, nodding with approval. “The Crownlands of Wisteria are indebted to the Guild’s consistent willingness to meet its demands, however trivial.”

“The pleasure is mutual, Ma’am.”

You cannot help but feel the tension between the two giant whiskers growing as they continue to exchange pleasantries. As you look over the bristling squadron of Wisterian paladins, you are taken aback at how a hundred-odd whiskers could remain so silent throughout the conversation.

“So why bring the cavalry, Queen Moonfabias?” Allard says, sweeping his own gold-armored hand at the sea of warhammers. “Has the regular army come down with foot rot?”

“Tsk, tsk. Always the cheeky one, Sir Allard,” Moonfabias says, her eyes narrowing. “I have my reasons. And speaking of which…”

She gestures brusquely to her lead paladins, who put down their instrument and flag to pick up their weapons and make their way to the entrance of the Rising Café. They stop either side of the quaint wooden door and hammer their steel-studded fists against it. Nothing stirs from within the building, so they knock again. 

“That door is gonna splinter if Sprinkles doesn’t answer soon,” Burt says.

The doorknob turns and the hinges creak slowly, and a set of angry eyes appears at the crack in the doorway.

“I am done with business today, if you don’t mind,” comes Mr. Sprinkles’ carrying voice. “I’ve had quite enough of visitors and intruders alike.”

“Step aside, Sprinkles.” One of the paladins unslings his warhammer. “You’re interfering with a royal decree. You gave up your authority the day you quit the Wisterian military.” 

They force open the door and march inside. You hear Sprinkles utter a stream of admonishments as they drag out the two assassins you had held prisoner before. They seem to be awakening from the enchanted sleep Sprinkles had put them in earlier. They rub their eyes in the light of the failing sun and jerk to attention at the sight of the Wisterian Queen.

“Queen Moonfabias,” one of them splutters. “We weren’t aware of the forest dwell—”

In an instant, Moonfabias raps her staff, and the whisker who had spoken falls silent. You watch in horror as his lips peel off his face, like a sticker that had lost its adhesion, and fly into Moonfabias’ open palm, where she crushes it in a clenched fist.

“The insolence.” Her piercing shriek echoes down the crowded street. “Commoners are not to speak to me directly, let alone lawless fish-scum like you.” She turns to Allard, and her thunderous face snaps to one of sickly sweetness. “My sources tell me you were beset by these unsavory characters, and you had brought them into Wisteria for judgment; isn’t that right, Sir Allard?”

“Sources? What are the sources she keeps going on about?” Burt mutters in your ear. 

“That would be correct, Ma’am,” Allard replies coolly, stepping on Burt’s toes. “My friend here was put in mortal danger thanks to these two ruffians. If it weren’t for some, er, outside help, it might’ve ended in tragedy. I’m assuming your sources have informed you of this as well?”

“Indeed, indeed,” Moonfabias says, her eyes flashing. “It’s just as well you confirm my reports. And now, we just have to do the clean up.”

The Wisterian queen raises her jewel-topped staff over her head. The sapphire (which looks like a jagged crescent moon now that you look at it closely) glows a deep purple, then suddenly erupts into dark flames. With much flourishing, she takes aim at the assassins. Two flaming lassos erupt from the end of her staff and tighten around their necks. One of the assassins screams for mercy, while the other, for lack of a mouth, is reduced to tears of terror. Moonfabias, with a savage grin, yanks her staff backwards, and there is a resounding crack that makes you and Burt jump. The purple flames vaporize instantly, and the assassins keel over, their lifeless forms thumping against the cobblestones. Moonfabias clicks her fingers, and her lead paladins drag the bodies to the back of the army, where they are stuffed into thick fishnets. 

“What have you done?!” cries Burt. “They were grade-A blockheads, but they didn’t deserve that!”

Allard scoops Burt into a headlock to silence him, and with the same arm, he puts his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Now, now, no need to get defensive,” Moonfabias says with a deep purr. “Now that we’ve taken out the trash, we can get to business.”

“I’d appreciate it if you spoke with haste, Queen Moonfabias,” Allard says, his voice dropping dangerously. “The sun is fading, and we have urgent matters to tend to.”

“Nothing is more urgent than what I’m about to offer you.” 

Allard relaxes his arm, releasing his sword and a spluttering Burt. He glances skywards to the east before replying,

“Do tell.”

Moonfabias straightens her crown and lovingly examines the sapphire on her staff. “My armies are preparing to march on the Barren Hills. The time has come for those desolate lands to awaken and prosper, and damned if Melkezadek puts his filthy hands on them first.”

“I am aware the Barren Hills have great agricultural potential. They must be highly desirable,” says Allard, carefully choosing his words. “But it is also known that a curse lies upon those soils.”

“You are correct, Sir Allard. They say the one who controls those lands will become an indomitable ruler of the Western Kingdoms, if only that curse be lifted.” Moonfabias squares her shoulders. “Return to Wisteria, Sir Allard. Take up your post again. I will grant you an army greater than you have ever commanded. And what do they pay you again down at your, uh, Adventurer’s Guild? Consider it tripled.”

“That is a very generous offer, Ma’am,” Allard says. 

“Of course it is.”

“With all due respect, I refuse. I am quite happy with my post at the Guild.”

“Of course you are. In that case, I must remind you of a particular law we have.”

“And what might that be?”

“Every whisker that enters the Crownlands must surrender, upon royal request, any item that may be in their possession if reasonable suspicion is cast on said item’s inherent threat to our society.”

“How may that be relevant to me?”

“Don’t play dumb, Sir Allard. You know exactly what is in your possession as we speak.”

“That item was won by Burt fair and square. We are merely carrying it because it is valuable. It is not dangerous as long as it does not fall into the wrong hands.”

“Exactly my point! Now, wouldn’t it be better if they were in the safe hands of the Crown?”

“I know who lies within your dungeons, Queen Moonfabias. Don’t you think it would be folly if I handed this item directly to you?”

“I think the opposite of you, Sir Allard. I will take good care of it. And what do you know of my dungeons?”

“More than I would dare let slip.”

“Is that a threat, Sir Allard?”

“It is not.”

Moonfabias strikes the ground with her staff, and a few purple sparks fly from the sapphire.

“I am done with games. I need your official answer right here, right now, Allard. You will either rejoin Wisteria, hereby surrendering all of your possessions during your tenure for the good of the Crown, or else you and your party will be subject to a search until we are satisfied you carry no items of interest to us.”

“And what if I refuse both?”

Moonfabias gives Allard a murderous look before raising an open hand. Every paladin in her army unloads their warhammer and places their palm against the anvil. The heads of their hammers glow with a radiant light that illuminates the stern expressions of their wielders. Burt shrinks back into you and grips the front of your cloak.

“I close my hand, and every soldier here will crush you and your friends to smithereens. What will it be, Sir Allard?”

Allard doesn’t reply and instead looks up at the twilight sky again. “What’s that?” he says, craning his head casually.

Moonfabias is taken aback by the abrupt change in conversation and is distracted enough to reply, “What’s what?”

There is an ear-shattering screech that fills the skies, and you hear the flapping of mighty wings. Whatever light was left coming from the horizon suddenly blocks out, and the street plunges into darkness.

“Uh-oh, I’m getting a sense of deja vu,” Burt says, clutching your cloak even tighter. “Do you remember back on that land bridge to Borozon?”

You nod feverishly. You aren’t able to comprehend what is happening. You are frozen in place until one of the paladins points upward and screams.

“Skullpicker Heron!”

There is hysteria amongst the ranks of Moonfabias’ army as a gigantic bird descends onto them and begins tearing at the armored whiskers with its snapping beak and talons. Its feathers give off a brilliant golden aura. 

“Bless the Old Wizard,” Burt says. His face is white. “It looks just like the Skullpicker. But don’t you think it looks just a bit smaller? You’d remember if you were grabbed by those claws.”

You see that Burt is right and come to the realization at the same time as him. 

“Nessie!”

“Quick, run this way!” Allard roars as he grabs you and Burt by the scruffs of your cloaks. “It’s Nessie alright, but these boneheads couldn’t tell a cat from a fish.”

He crashes through the frantic soldiers, aimlessly waving their weapons, and heads for the trees off the side of the street. 

Moonfabias casts a few different elemental spells at Nessie, but they bounce off her plumage and only succeed in making her angrier. 

“Retreat, retreat!” she cries as she lifts her robes and scurries back into her carriage. 

The hubbub gradually fades behind you as you’re hauled along by Allard. You pass by several more buildings among the shrubbery until you reach the outer wall of the Wisterian city.

“Wait, wait, you’re just leaving Nessie there?” Burt looks indignantly at Allard while massaging his neck.

“Against that puffed up spellcaster and the sorriest bunch of paladins I’ve ever seen?” Allard says. He hardly seems out of breath, even after the sprint. 

"That puffed up spellcaster killed two whiskers. Surely even your old eyes saw that."

Allard waves a dismissive hand.

“It's about all she can do. Aye, Nessie will be fine. She carries the blood of the Skullpicker after all.”

“What’s so special about the Skullpicker?”

“You saw how Moonfabias’ spells just bounced off her? The reason why the Skullpicker has been threatening the Great Pond for so long is that it carries ancient magic in its feathers. No regular weapon or spell can pierce it. And naturally, the same goes for Nessie.”

You and Burt exchange looks of amazement.

“But Soraya’s Lullaby worked on it back in the Altreca Mountains,” Burt says, scratching his head. “Anyway, how did she come at that exact moment?”

You suddenly remember the golden wisp that Allard had released before the meeting with the Queen. 

“Looks like our Adventurer has figured it out,” Allard says, nodding. “I called her. I knew it wouldn’t be easy dealing with that wretched Queen. And don't worry, she'll fly back to the Guild once she's taken care of things, and no-one will suspect a thing."

"Awfully optimistic. I'd be in shambles if I tossed a beloved pet amongst a pack of hungry wolves."

"Enough talk. We need to get over this wall.”

“Okay, well, how are we going to—”

Burt is cut short as Allard grabs him around the waist and bodily throws him over the wall, which is at least twenty whiskers tall. As you hear Burt’s wail as he flies over the wall, you put up your hands and back away, but Allard mercilessly sends you sailing after Burt. 

“Can you believe that guy?” Burt grabs your hand to pull you back to your feet.

After a few moments, you see the silhouette of Allard’s form clambering over the battlement against the moonlight, and then, with a loud thump, he lands next to you.

“Keep it moving, minnows; we’ve got a date with the devil.”

You remember that the Saxum de Phasma is an abandoned old cathedral that lies behind the Wisterian fortress, near the border of the Sunshade Woods. After checking that the coast is clear of sentries, the party creeps onward, listening for the sounds of the docks that the cathedral was built against.

“You mentioned something about Moonfabias’ dungeons before,” Burt whispers. “Wait, lemme guess. Or maybe you told me before…anyway, is Zaranoah being held down there by any chance?”

Allard heaves a sigh.

“Yes, Zaranoah is down there. Myself and Sprinkles put her away in those dark dungeons many moons ago when we were working for Wisteria."

"You said this corrupt Shard of End we have gives off the same energy as her." Burt shudders a little. "Were you the one who broke apart her Shard when you locked her up?"

"No, Burt. It takes a very powerful dark spell to do that. Shattering a whisker's Shard puts them into an eternal sleep from which they can be awakened only if the Shard is made whole again. Ah, it's all starting to make sense now."

"What makes sense? Come on, old man, you can't just stop there."

"Both Andromadus and Moonfabias want the shard to awaken Zaranoah. But I imagine for vastly different reasons, and I am not any closer to comprehending either of them." Allard lays a hand on his satchel, which holds the artifact Sprinkles had given him. "Hopefully, one of those reasons will be made clear within the hour."

Allard holds up a fist. You stop and feel Burt careen into your back. You wonder why Allard has stopped when he points up ahead.

"The Saxum de Phasma."

Backlit by the cloud-obscured moonlight, the decrepit building looks like something out of a nightmare. An entire half of its stone roof has crumbled, and bits of debris litter the vicinity. The ancient wooden door hangs at an angle, and the huge circular stained glass centerpiece that sits above the entrance is broken so that it now features a headless whisker saint. 

"That's the place where we're gonna meet that armored beetle of a whisker?" Burt splutters. "Boy, our host sure likes to put on the theatrics."

"Quiet, Burt." Allard swiftly and soundlessly unsheathes his claymore. "First things first. We secure the safety of Quatal. Something tells me we're about to walk headfirst into a trap, but we have a few tricks up our sleeves too."

"Why couldn't Nessie come with us?"

"I'm afraid the enemy we're about to face is quite a bit more capable than that silk-wrapped ninny."

"Oh, so now you care about Nessie's well-being." 

"The longer we talk, the longer Quatal's life is in danger," Allard growls. "Ready a spell and follow me. There's no point sneaking around now."

You hastily prepare to cast a Frozen Spear and stumble after Allard as he steps from the bushes to the cracked stairs leading to the Saxum de Phasma.

"Humph, theatrics indeed," Allard mutters. "This is the place Andromadus frequented to practice his dark spells in his youth, away from prying eyes. There's no telling what he might have prepared for us."

"You're really not selling this place, Allard," Burt says from behind you. 

As you reach the top of the stairs, a series of sonorous clangs makes all three of you jump.

"The bells of this cathedral haven't been heard for a century since they were dismantled." Allard raises his blade. "Someone's fixed them up."

"Three guesses who," says Burt, his teeth chattering.