The morning found their company diminished but determined. Druidly, the half-orc wizard whose arcane studies had served them well, shouldered his pack with the quiet confidence of one who had mastered the mysteries of sleep and flame. “The swamp barrow,” he declared, adjusting his spell components. “Those frogs won’t catch us unprepared again.”
Bancroft nodded with the simple enthusiasm that marked all his endeavors. Despite his farmer’s origins—or perhaps because of them—he approached each challenge with the same methodical care he had once given to planting seasons. “Sylvanus teaches us that all creatures have their place,” he said, hefting his sword. “Even giant frogs.”
The barrow’s entrance yawned before them like a mouth full of stagnant water. The two massive frogs that had driven them off before still lurked in the flooded chamber, their bulbous eyes reflecting the torchlight with predatory intelligence.
“Stand back,” Druidly whispered, his fingers weaving the intricate patterns of his Sleep spell. The magic took hold of one frog immediately, its massive form settling into the murky water with a satisfied croak. But the second proved more resilient, launching itself at them with a bellow that echoed through the stone corridors.
Riyou’s circus training served her well. The halfling thief danced aside from the creature’s snapping jaws and sent a sling stone cracking into its skull. “Got you, you overgrown tadpole!” she called out, her performer’s instincts making even combat seem like entertainment.
Druidly’s second casting proved the charm, and the frog’s aggressive charge slowed to a drowsy waddle. Riyou’s dagger found its mark with the precision of one who had learned to hit small targets from great heights, and the creature collapsed with a final, mournful croak.
“Right then,” Riyou said, producing a set of knives that would have made a butcher envious. “Let’s see what these beauties have been eating.”
What followed made even Kafeelia—who had survived spider bites and wizard’s fire—turn green around the gills. Riyou attacked the frog’s corpse with the enthusiasm of a scholar discovering a new manuscript, her small hands disappearing into the creature’s innards with disturbing glee.
“By Sylvanus’s beard,” Bancroft muttered, covering his eyes. “That’s… that’s not natural.”
“Oh, this is fascinating!” Riyou exclaimed, elbow-deep in frog viscera. “Look at the size of this stomach! And the teeth marks on these bones!”
Irulan, her half-orc constitution proving stronger than the others’, managed to watch long enough to spot something glinting in the water. “There,” she pointed with her sword. “Bodies. Old ones.”
Their grisly search of the chamber revealed the remains of previous adventurers—friends and acquaintances who had met their end in these dark waters. A longsword of good steel, a serviceable dagger, and a handful of coins marked their passing. Bancroft whispered a prayer over each discovery, his connection to nature extending even to the dead.
“The other one’s still sleeping,” Irulan observed, eyeing the remaining frog with a warrior’s calculation.
Riyou, having finally exhausted her enthusiasm for amphibian anatomy, wiped her hands clean. “Bancroft, could you help me with—oh, look at that interesting moss pattern!”
While the simple cleric turned to examine what he assumed was another of nature’s wonders, Irulan’s sword found the sleeping frog’s heart. The creature died without waking, a mercy that Bancroft would have appreciated if he had noticed.
“Much more civilized,” Riyou declared, approaching this dissection with considerably less fervor. Her restraint was rewarded when she discovered a partially digested corpse clutching an obsidian statue of Nergul. “Fifteen gold, easy,” she announced, holding up the dark figurine. “Someone paid good money for this little nightmare.”
Despite their thorough search—Bancroft even attempted to commune with the local plant life, though the moss proved disappointingly uncommunicative—they found no hidden passages or drainage mechanisms. The barrow held no more secrets, and they marked it as fully explored on their increasingly detailed map.
“Where to next?” Kafeelia asked, her dwarven pragmatism cutting through their disappointment. The fighter had learned to avoid notice in the maze’s depths, but her recent encounter with Mazzah had kindled a more aggressive fire in her warrior’s heart.
They spent the afternoon investigating partially excavated barrows, looking for something they could crack open without requiring a siege engine. Most proved either too well-sealed or already thoroughly looted, until they came upon the barrow that had once been marked with a wax seal.
“We ran from this one,” Bancroft recalled with the honesty that marked all his observations. “Bronze doors. Something about the way they opened…”
“Cowardice is often wisdom in disguise,” Irulan said, though her grip on her sword suggested she was ready to be less wise this time.
The bronze doors stood open as they had left them, revealing a chamber that took their breath away. A viking funeral ship rested in the center of the room, its dragon-carved prow pointing toward some distant shore. A blue glow surrounded the vessel like captured starlight, and treasures were heaped upon its deck—chests and vases and urns that spoke of a chieftain’s wealth.
A skeleton lay in state amidst the treasure, still clutching a dagger and wearing a helm that caught the magical light. An axe rested at its side, and the whole scene spoke of honor and ancient rites.
“Now that,” Druidly said with the appreciation of one who understood the value of proper presentation, “is how you do a burial.”
“The question is,” Riyou mused, her thief’s eye already calculating angles and distances, “how do we get to it without walking through that pretty blue glow?”
The answer came in the form of rope and circus skills. Riyou fashioned a lasso with the expertise of one who had once performed for crowds, and her first cast landed perfectly around one of the smaller chests. The magical field flickered and died as the chest was dragged across its boundary, dispelling whatever ward had protected the ship.
“Too easy,” Kafeelia muttered, her warrior’s instincts prickling with unease.
She was right to worry. The chest had barely reached the chamber’s entrance when it began to change. What had appeared to be wood and iron sprouted teeth and eyes and a lolling tongue that dripped with acidic saliva. The mimic’s true form was a nightmare of flesh and hunger, and it was not alone.
Every chest, every vase, every piece of treasure on the ship revealed itself as another of the shapeshifting horrors. They flowed off the vessel like a tide of teeth and malice, their forms shifting between furniture and monster with nauseating fluidity.
“Well,” Bancroft said with the calm that came from a complete lack of imagination, “that’s not good.” He took a swing at the nearest mimic with his elvish blade, the steel ringing against its hide, then turned and ran with the practical wisdom of a farmer who knew when the wolves were too many for the shepherd.
Riyou’s circus agility served her poorly against creatures that could reshape themselves at will. Teeth found her leg, then her arm, and she collapsed as the mimics’ acidic saliva burned through her leather armor. Her last conscious sight was of Druidly, the half-orc wizard who had guided them through so many dangers, disappearing beneath a writhing mass of false treasure.
Irulan’s warrior training took over. She grabbed the fallen halfling and hauled her toward the entrance, her half-orc strength proving equal to the task. Kafeelia covered their retreat with her warhammer, the dwarven fighter’s recent trials having taught her when to fight and when to flee.
They burst from the barrow like souls escaping damnation, carrying Riyou between them as the mimics’ hungry roars echoed behind them. The creatures did not pursue—perhaps they were bound to their ship, or perhaps they were simply content with their meal.
Riyou staggered back into Helix that evening, her small frame marked by scars that would never fully fade. The mimics’ teeth had left their mark, but her performer’s spirit remained unbroken. She found the others at the inn, drowning their grief in ale and planning their next move with the grim determination of those who had lost a friend.
“Druidly’s gold,” Bancroft said quietly, counting out the coins with the reverence due to a fallen comrade’s legacy. “We’ll use it to learn what we can. He would have wanted that.”
Mazzah’s tower loomed against the evening sky as they approached, the wizard’s wards crackling with barely contained power. The grumpy mage examined their meager treasures with the disdain of one who had seen empires rise and fall, his magical senses probing each item for the spark of enchantment.
“Nothing,” he declared with satisfaction, as if their disappointment pleased him. “Common steel, base metal, carved stone. Not even the obsidian statue carries so much as a cantrip.”
But when Riyou mentioned the tablet she had read—the one that had drained her so completely—Mazzah’s demeanor changed entirely. His eyes sharpened with an interest that bordered on hunger, and he leaned forward like a hawk spotting prey.
“You read one of the tablets and survived?” His voice carried a note of genuine shock. “Fascinating. Most who attempt such things are found as gibbering wrecks, if they’re found at all. I would pay handsomely for what you learned.”
Riyou, her circus performer’s instincts warning her that some audiences were more dangerous than others, shook her head. “Not yet,” she said carefully. “Maybe later, when I understand it better myself.”
Mazzah’s disappointment was palpable, but he nodded with the grudging respect of one professional for another. “Wise, perhaps. Knowledge has its own price, and some payments cannot be undone.”
As they walked back through Helix’s darkening streets, the weight of their losses pressed upon them. Druidly was gone, consumed by creatures that wore the faces of treasure. Their purses were lighter, their company smaller, and the maze’s secrets seemed as distant as ever.
But they were alive, and in the barrowmaze, that was victory enough for one day.
