The corridor beyond the locked door stretched long and solemn beneath a vaulted ceiling, its light supplied not by torch or flame but by pale fungi blooming along the columns. Their glow was soft and sickly, casting green-white halos across stone worn smooth by forgotten centuries.
Six doors lined the passage—three to each side.
Between them stood long wooden tables cluttered with herbs, stoppered vials, brittle roots, and withered plant samples carefully pinned to parchment. The air smelled of loam, rot, and sharp alchemical tinctures.
Eric’s eyes gleamed.
Bill moved beside him with quieter interest.
They pocketed what seemed useful—dried leaves that still held a whisper of potency, a vial of viscous amber sap, several labelled cuttings from plants that had never seen the sun. Whatever Belak was cultivating here, it was not natural.
The Sleeping Chamber
At the first door on the left, a low rumbling snore filtered through the wood.
Alder eased it open.
Inside lay a cramped dormitory—sleeping mats strewn across the floor. Four were occupied.
Alder stepped silently to the nearest form and lifted the blanket.
A goblin blinked up at him.
Alder shut the door.
No words were exchanged.
The Winery
Valder opened the opposite door with less delicacy.
Inside stood barrels and crude presses—a goblin winery of sorts. The scent of fermented mushrooms and sour fruit hung heavy in the air.
A pair of goblins stared at them.
Valder attempted diplomacy.
The goblins responded by hurling a pan.
The door closed swiftly.
The Laboratory
The next door was Eric’s.
He cracked it open and froze.
A giant rat lay upon a large wooden table, bound in leather straps. Tumorous growths bulged grotesquely from its flanks. Two goblins worked busily with knives and syringes, drawing cloudy liquid from the swollen sacs into waiting vials.
The rat twitched weakly.
Eric closed the door without a sound.
The Watch Room
Bill tried the next door.
He tried to open it quietly.
The hinges betrayed him with a shriek.
Two arrows shot through the widening gap. One buried itself deep in Bill’s shoulder.
He staggered back.
Before steel could answer steel, Alder stepped forward, voice smooth and confident, hands raised in peaceful greeting. His words flowed quickly, cleverly, and with just enough shared grievance about hobgoblins to soothe suspicion.
The goblins lowered their bows.
They spoke of the “Big Boss.”
North.
Through the next door.
Beyond the arboretum.
The party thanked them and moved on.
The Weapon Store and the Arboretum
The next chamber proved to be a weapons store—spears, sickles, rusting blades stacked against walls. A small antechamber led beyond into a larger, cross-shaped hall.
Carvings of dragons adorned the walls, their once-majestic forms now half obscured by compost spread thick across the floor. Gardening tools lay scattered. Patches of stunted, pale plants struggled in the dim fungal light.
“The arboretum,” Bill murmured.
If this was a garden, it was one starved of hope.
A shape moved in the shadows.
A bugbear burst forward, wielding a massive sickle. It cut deep into Isledie before he could fully react, the blade drawing a crimson arc across his side.
The halfling stumbled back, breath sharp, whispering a prayer of thanks simply for surviving.
Valder roared into rage and charged.
Alder followed, blade flashing.
Spells burst against fur and muscle. Steel answered steel.
The bugbear fell heavily into the blood-soaked compost, its life soaking into the soil it had guarded.
Eastern Dead
At the eastern door, Valder paused.
“Scraping,” he muttered.
Bill opened it.
Three skeletons lurched forward, accompanied by a spindly animated twig-creature that skittered like a hateful parody of life.
One skeleton slashed Bill across the ribs.
Bill answered with Sacred Flame, and the twig-creature ignited instantly, burning to ash with a dry crackle.
Eric’s Magic Missile shattered one skeleton. Alder’s Vicious Mockery lashed another with psychic contempt so sharp its bones collapsed in a clatter.
The remaining undead fell swiftly beneath spell and blade.
Silence returned.
The Fire Beneath the Mud
They chose the octagonal chamber to rest.
Most slept.
Alder took watch.
The compost shifted.
At first it was subtle—a ripple across damp soil. Then the earth bulged.
Alder rose.
The creature burst forth in a spray of mud and steam—a white-hot worm-like horror crowned with fan-like frills and a lashing tail of flame.
A fire salamander.
It struck fast.
Its jaws snapped at Alder’s face; only his shield saved him. Its tail coiled and lashed, burning through armor into flesh. The heat was unbearable.
Alder gasped but did not fall. He drew on his inner reserve, pushing through the pain, striking back. Yet his rapier bit less deeply than expected—and the heat travelled down the blade, blistering his hands.
He spat insults sharp enough to stagger thought itself, confusing the creature momentarily.
It turned on Bill.
Eric awoke, blinking, and sent Magic Missile streaking into molten flesh. Bill answered with Guiding Bolt, radiant light blasting the creature backward.
Still it pressed on, biting, burning, relentless.
Then Alder, voice raw but steady, cast Sleep.
The salamander shuddered—
Collapsed.
Valder stepped forward and ended it with a brutal stroke, though even in death its heat scorched his skin.
Among the churned earth of its lair they found two sapphires, glinting cool and blue against the blackened soil.
A small mercy.
A Quieter Rest
They retreated to the weapon store, barricaded the door, and at last found unbroken sleep.
When they returned to the arboretum, they searched more carefully and uncovered a forgotten healing potion among overturned crates.
Two doors remained.
“The Big Boss is north,” Alder said.
“So south,” Valder replied.
At the southern door, they listened.
Scraping.
More bone, perhaps.
They left it closed.
And turned north.
Toward the one who had come twelve years ago.
Toward the gardener of corruption.
Toward Belak.
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