Young city children wave and cheer as the caravan trundles out of Bisutan. Soon you cross the great southern bridge, and when you look down at the sparkling blue waters of the Khorda, you see there a flotilla of tiny fishing craft plying their trade. For the first hour of the journey you content yourself with the view and watch the lush scenery and picturesque villages of the river basin pass before your eyes. However, when the caravan enters the Bavari Hills this pleasant landscape soon gives way to a more mundane vista—a seemingly endless sea of barren mounds and arid rocky outcrops.
After a while your attention turns to the other passengers. They are a cheerful group of Vassagonians who are returning to their homes in Bavari after family visits and business in Bisutan. You pass the time exchanging stories and playing cards. You learn that this caravan is regularly used by the merchants of Bavari and Hikas. They prefer to transport their wares by road rather than risk the sea voyage through the Bay of Sharks. Contrary to its name, you hear that there are no longer any sharks in this bay; they migrated to southern waters many centuries ago. One of the passengers jokingly suggests that the reason they left was because of the pirates. The bay is a notorious haunt of buccaneer fleets and renegade privateers.
The surrounding country may be bleak and barren to the eye, but the road is good and the territory is safe. The merchants have established armed outposts every 20 miles which help to deter bandits from raiding the caravans en route. The first night is spent at an outpost and the second night a camp is struck at an oasis where the road is joined by a track. This neglected track traverses the mountains and leads to the Great Masourn Trail, an ancient trade route. Many of your fellow travellers have been looking forward to arriving at the oasis, for it allows them the chance to visit Temujun the Sage—the famous soothsayer of the Dry Main, and when the caravan arrives there, they hurriedly disembark. You watch with fascination as half of your wagon’s passengers scurry towards Temujun’s tent, which is pitched at the edge of a shimmering pool, whilst the other half gather about a blazing campfire and share their food while they enjoy a performance given by a troupe of actors.
(I visit the Sage)
From the reverent way the passengers spoke about Temujun during the journey, you are expecting him to be either a very wise old cleric or a gifted charlatan. You take your place in line with the others who are queueing to enter his tent and idly you listen to their excited chatter. While you wait, a young boy clad in a mhaktis of striped silk walks along the line collecting Temujun’s fee. For five minutes’ consultation with the learned sage, the charge is 2 Gold Crowns.
(I pay)
An hour passes before your turn comes to enter Temujun’s tent. Awaiting you inside is an old man swathed in a silk robe. He wears a jewel-encrusted collar and a large blue turban that is wrapped impeccably around his frail head. He is seated cross-legged on a mound of pillows and he cradles a sphere of rose-coloured crystal in his lap.
Without once looking up from his crystal sphere he tells you to sit opposite him and place any weapons you may be carrying on the floor beside you. When you comply with his wishes he closes his eyes and begins to concentrate. A few moments later he opens them and stares at your satchel with a look of shocked surprise; you sense at once that he has detected the presence of the Moonstone. The frail old man begins to shake and beads of sweat trickle down his wrinkled face. For a moment his eyes widen and then he faints and falls backwards among his pillows.
( I try and revive him)
You use your Kai healing skills to revive the old man and calm his trembling limbs. Then you help him to sit up and, when he has regained his composure, he looks into your eyes and says:
‘You are one of the Kai, yes?’ You nod your head and a smile deepens the wrinkles around his mouth. ‘You possess a stone of power … a legendary stone?’ This time you hesitate, but you sense that it is a rhetorical question: the old man already knows the answer. Briefly he searches among his pillows and retrieves a leather-bound tube. He flips open one end of the tube and tips a plain-looking ring into the palm of his hand. It seems to be crafted from petrified wood.
‘Take this, Kai Lord,’ he says, and proffers you the ring. ‘It will keep you safe on your long journey. That which you seek to return must be delivered.’
You take the ring and place it in the pocket of your tunic (record Temujun’s Ring as a Special Item on your Action Chart). The old man smiles once more and, although no words are exchanged, you sense that he is deeply satisfied to be able to assist your vital mission.
You thank him and leave his tent. Once outside, you walk down to the edge of the oasis to bathe your face and drink the warm, fresh water. The yellow flames of the campfire are glimmering on its surface and you pause to consider joining the travellers who are seated around it, enjoying the show.
You seat yourself near the crackling campfire and one of your fellow passengers offers you a piece of fruit which you gratefully accept. The troupe are gifted acrobats and jugglers and the performances they give are very entertaining. During their act the leader of the troupe climbs upon a large barrel and challenges the audience to answer a riddle:
‘An old, one-legged farmer, his wife, his dog, his horse, and his cows, have 103 legs between them. How many cows does the old farmer have?’
The leader is sure that nobody will answer his riddle correctly. He is so sure that he offers 10 Gold Crowns to anyone who can give him the correct answer in less than thirty seconds.
(23 in 16 seconds)
The leader of the troupe says nothing, yet the crestfallen look on his face is enough to tell you that you have answered his riddle correctly.3 Your fellow passengers cheer and applaud your display of mental dexterity as you walk to the barrel to collect your prize of 10 Gold Crowns. (If you already possess the maximum number of Gold Crowns permissible, you share the coins out generously among those passengers who are travelling in your carriage.)
The show continues, but you are feeling tired and so you return to the empty passenger wagon. Before you pull your cloak around yourself and settle down to sleep, you must now eat a Meal or lose 3 ENDURANCE points (unless you possess the Discipline of Grand Huntmastery).
You are woken early the following morning by the motion of the carriage. As you rub your eyes and stretch your aching limbs, your fellow passengers tell you that the caravan has been on the move for more than an hour. They are eating a breakfast of bread and fruit which they generously offer to share with you.
It is almost noon when the stone town of Bavari looms into view. Most of its sun-bleached shops and houses are contained within a wall of uncemented stone blocks which rise to twice the height of a horse. The road approaches a heavy wooden gate, banded and studded with iron, which is flanked by circular guard towers. Perforating the walls are slits for archers and openings for larger machines of war.
The procession of wagons passes through the gate and comes to a halt in the middle of Bavari. As you disembark you sense an air of excitement pervading this town. You overhear the other passengers talking and you learn that today is the third day of the Bavarian gladiatorial circus—an annual event which attracts the finest warriors of Vassagonia to come here and compete with each other in armed combat. Great wealth and status are the rewards for those who triumph; disgrace and sometimes death await those who fail.
You are curious to see this great event and so you follow a group of passengers to Bavari’s arena where the gladiatorial circus is being staged. Entrance to the arena is free and you take a seat on one of the many stone tiers that encircle its oval-shaped fighting area. Throughout the afternoon several combats are staged between warriors on foot and on horseback. The heat of the desert sun is unrelenting, and by late afternoon you are feeling parched. During a lull in the contests, you hear the tinkling sound of running water and you decide to seek out its source. You descend to the edge of the fighting area and enter a tunnel which passes beneath the tiers of seats. Halfway along this cool tunnel is an open door set into the whitewashed wall. Through the doorway you see a bronze fountain standing in the middle of an empty room. It is richly embellished with engravings which depict ancient gladiatorial contests, and a stream of sparkling water issues upwards from a nozzle at its centre, inviting you to drink.
You are desperate to slake your thirst and so you enter the room and stoop over the fountain. You are swallowing the deliciously cool water when suddenly you sense someone rushing at you from behind.
The moment you turn around you find yourself staring into the face of a tall and powerfully built Vassagonian warrior. His eyes glow with a maniacal anger and, without warning, he closes his hands around your throat and crushes your windpipe in a vice-tight grip. Blood pounds at your temples and your vision blurs as he lifts you bodily from the floor. To break his grip you slam your boot into his stomach and he doubles up, releasing you as he falls gasping to his knees.
You stagger backwards and grab the fountain for support as gingerly you clasp your bruised throat. With croaking voice you demand the warrior explain the reason for his unprovoked attack. He answers you with a growl; then he draws his sword and strikes out at your legs. You leap over his scything blade and kick out in mid-air to catch him squarely between the eyes with the hardened toe of your boot. The warrior is flung backwards and you hear a loud Crack! as his head strikes the tiled floor.
Suddenly six burly gladiators come rushing into the room with their swords drawn.
‘How dare you enter the Chamber of the Font!’ screams one scar-faced fighter.
‘It is forbidden!’ shouts another. ‘Only gladiators of Vassa lineage may enter here and drink the holy waters!’
There is further outrage when they see your attacker lying on the floor. The scar-faced fighter kneels and places a hand to the man’s neck, and then he glares at you and screams: ‘He’s dead! You’ve killed Malduz!’
‘We’ll see you pay for this,’ shouts another, and slowly the angry men advance into the room with murder blazing in their eyes.
Desperately you look around for a means to escape, but the doorway offers the only way of leaving the room. You are about to rush at the advancing gladiators and fight your way through them, when suddenly you see something that stops you dead in your tracks.