Bancroft staggered through Helix’s gates like a man touched by plague, his once-proud bearing reduced to a shambling gait. Yellow mold clung to his skin in sickly patches, and his head bore fresh dents from their harrowing escape. Most telling of all, his jeweled sword—the blade that had marked him as more than a simple farmer—was gone, lost to the maze’s hungry darkness.
One by one, his companions limped back to town, each bearing their own wounds and disappointments. Irulan clutched the elvish longsword they had claimed from the statue at such terrible cost, but her face was grim. “The magic’s gone,” she reported, watching the blade’s ornate surface catch the lamplight without so much as a glimmer. “Pretty enough still, but no more than decoration now.”
Their coin purses hung as empty as their hopes. After much debate over whether to sell their one remaining prize, they decided Bancroft should carry the elvish blade—perhaps the maze would restore its power, or perhaps they would need its fine steel before this was over.
“We go back,” Bancroft declared with the simple determination that had carried him from farm to adventure. “The statues might have returned. We’ll bring fire this time—torches and oil to burn away that cursed mold.”
The road to the barrowmaze held its own surprises. Three skeletons emerged from the morning mist, but these bore no weapons raised in threat. Their leader, distinguished by an ancient helmet of curious design, gestured with bony fingers at Bancroft’s weatherproof cloak. The pantomimed negotiation that followed would have been comical if not for the hollow eye sockets fixed upon them.
Bancroft’s farmer’s instincts served him well in the bargaining. When the skeleton offered the helmet for his cloak, the simple cleric shook his head and pointed to his dagger. The undead merchant considered, then pointed to Bancroft’s purse and held up five fingers. Bancroft grinned and accepted, gaining a strange dented helmet while keeping his cloak—a trade that would serve him better than he knew.
The barrow lay silent as a tomb, which it was. The secret door to the statue chamber remained sealed, and when Riyou pressed her ear to the stone, she heard nothing but the whisper of ancient air. Changing focus to the eastern room, they approached the staircase with torches held high, ready to face the yellow death that had nearly claimed them before.
Bancroft approached the mold-covered door with the reverence of one who had learned to respect nature’s more dangerous children. He touched his torch to the fungal growth gingerly, watching it blacken and retreat with an aggressive puff of spores. His cloak covered his mouth just in time, and he backed away as the deadly cloud dispersed harmlessly.
“Water might work too,” Irulan suggested, taking Druidly’s bucket. Her first attempt succeeded admirably—the mold dissolved under the splash, and she danced back from the resulting spore cloud with a warrior’s grace. Emboldened, she tried again, but this time the spores found their mark. She collapsed, choking and gasping, her lungs burning with each desperate breath.
Bancroft’s healing prayers proved useless against the fungal poison. In desperation, Irulan plunged her head into the bucket and inhaled water—once, twice—until the drowning sensation finally cleared the spores from her lungs. She emerged sputtering and furious. “The water’s no good,” she gasped, though it had clearly saved her life.
Only then did they discover their oversight. Despite all their planning, no one had brought additional torches or oil. The maze had taught them another lesson in preparation, and they retreated to Helix with nothing but bitter experience to show for their efforts.
That evening found Bancroft and Irulan at the church of St. Ygg, ladling soup for the poor as penance for their debts. The simple cleric’s nature made the work feel less like servitude and more like calling, though the weight of obligation still pressed upon his shoulders.
Dawn brought renewed determination and proper supplies. This time they carried torches and lamp oil in abundance, ready to face the mold with fire and fury. The barrow remained quiet, but with the right tools, they made quick work of the fungal barrier. Oil spread the flames wide while torches burned hot and clean, reducing the yellow death to harmless ash.
Riyou, with her circus-trained balance, picked her way across the treacherous pit to claim their prizes: an amphora of obvious value and a tablet covered in mysterious script. The return to town felt like a victory march, even if a modest one.
The amphora fetched fifty gold pieces from a merchant who recognized quality when he saw it. A cracked mirror from their earlier adventures added four more coins to their purse. Once again, Bancroft and Irulan spent the night serving the poor, their debt to the church slowly diminishing with each bowl of soup served.
But not all of their company found such peaceful rest. Kafeelia, the dwarven fighter whose warrior’s fire had been kindled in the maze’s depths, had conceived a plan as bold as it was foolish. She pitched her tent directly before Mazzah’s tower, determined to gain the wizard’s attention through sheer persistence.
She succeeded beyond her wildest expectations. Sometime in the dark hours before dawn, Mazzah noticed his uninvited guest and responded with the subtlety of a Fireball. Kafeelia awoke to flames consuming her tent, rolling clear just as the magical fire reached its peak. In a moment of inspired madness, she shoved the burning tent against Mazzah’s door, hoping to return the favor. The wizard’s wards proved stronger than canvas, and the flames died without effect.
Undaunted, Kafeelia made her bed on the wizard’s doorstep, her warrior’s pride refusing to yield. She awoke paralyzed, a captive to Mazzah’s magic and his irritation. “I don’t wish to be disturbed,” the wizard explained with the patience of one addressing a particularly slow child, before depositing her at the Grey Company’s headquarters like an unwanted package.
Turned away from every inn and tavern in town—word of her confrontation with Mazzah had spread quickly—Kafeelia found herself camping in the black forest north of Helix. The spiders that hunted her through the dark hours were almost a relief after the wizard’s cold disdain.
Meanwhile, Riyou had made a discovery that would prove more dangerous than any spider. She came downstairs in the morning holding the tablet they had planned to sell to Mazzah, but its surface was now blank as fresh parchment. Under questioning, she confessed to reading it during the night, though she seemed dazed and exhausted by whatever knowledge she had gained.
Bancroft, with the simple wisdom that sometimes surpassed cleverness, plucked a tuft of grass from a crack in the inn’s floor and smacked her across the face with it. “Nature’s touch will heal her,” he declared with absolute conviction. Whether it was the grass, the shock, or simply time, Riyou’s eyes cleared and focus returned.
But with three of their number exhausted—Irulan still recovering from the spores, Kafeelia spider-bitten and sleepless, and Riyou drained by forbidden knowledge—the company found themselves at a crossroads. The maze had given them treasures and taken its price in equal measure, leaving them to wonder what fresh horrors and opportunities the next day would bring.
