Aided by the mage’s spells, the companions pulled back the heavy lid of the sarcophagus, letting it fall to the ground.  The heavy slab of adamantine crashes into the obsidian floor with a resounding clamor that startles them.

Deep cracks form in the floor, earthy stone shattered by unearthly metal.  A few of the half-dozen ancient skeletons lying on the floor were pulverized.  A skull flies off to shatter on a wall in the distance.  But even before the ringing in their ears dies, their eyes are pulled inward to the contents of the stone box.  The massive pile of treasure glitters brightly in the dim torchlight.

“Is…is it…gold?!”  Asks the barbarian, still sitting propped up against the wall.

“Hold still, Vigorn.”  Replies the priest as he works the large man’s bandages, “You’re going to rip those stitches.”

The others look at their hard-earned bounty.  The capacity of the stone sarcophagus is about eight feet long, by three feet wide, and at most four feet deep.  But it is filled to the brim with jewels and coins.  They sparkle with a brightness matched only by the four adventurers’ eyes.

“GAH!!  Silver!?”  Yells the thief.  “We were told there was a king’s ransom in here!”

“Easy Fafnir,” replies the ranger, “With that much silver, there’s easily a king’s ransom in there, enough for each of us.”

The mage sifts through the coins and gems, looking for something.  The bard Amerigen gingerly picks up a piece of the silver, slowly turning it in his hands.  Something is not right about it.

“Soft you now,” he says, as much to himself as to the others.  “Silver.  Silver, tarnishes.  It turns brown, like a dull copper piece.”  He holds the coin up, closer to the torch held by the ranger so that the others can see it’s shine.  It looks polished to a near mirror-like sheen.

“Yet look at this, look at all of them.  Not a speck of patina on any of them!”

“So what does that mean?”  Asks the rogue, not sure whether to be hopeful or even more upset.

“I have never seen these markings on coins.  Nor these images.  What languages are these in?”  Asks the mage, also musing to himself out loud.

“YOU don’t know?”  Retorts the thief, without a hint of his accustomed sarcasm.  “I was beginning to think you knew everything.”

The mage looks up at Fafnir, scrying for the said sarcasm.

“I’ve seen these before,”  says Amerigen.  “Somewhere…”

“Please tell me it’s not more magic,” sighs the ranger Draighean.  “I am worn through dealing with traps and wards.”

“No, not magical.  Not a spell at any rate.”  Replies the bard.  Even the mage has ceased looking for the tablets that we was most interested in and is now studying one of the strange silvery coins.

“Well,”  replies the wounded barbarian, “don’t keep us waiting.  This isn’t one of your stories.  Out with it, minstrel!  What is it?”

“I…I don’t…”  suddenly the bard’s eyes go wide with remembrance.  “Enochian!  It’s Enochian!”  he turns to the barbarian and the priest.  “Enochian!”

“Aye,” answers the priest, still working on securing the last of the bandages.  “and I am secretly the pope, sent here to test your loyalty to the gods.”

“What?”  Replies the rogue.  “What are you talking about?!”

The priest briefly looks up at the thief with a look of annoyance, before returning to the large barbarian’s wounds.

“He’s joking, Faf.  He means that Amerigen is obviously dead wrong.”  Answers the mage.

“No I’m not!”  Amerigen protests.  “Look!  See for yourself!  It is Enochian!”

“How could I?”  The mage Merlock replies, “I’ve never seen that legendary script.  No mortal man has.”

“You forget, wizard.  I have the bl…”

“Yes, yes, the blood of the sidhe running through your veins.  We’ve all heard it before.”  He says as he turns a coin around in his hands.  “And assuming it is true, what does being related to the elves have to do with you knowing the legendary language of celestials?  Hmm?”  He looks up at the bard, his eyes peering over his spectacles.  He nods towards the priest.  “Cadfael over there has read as much cannon as I have the arcane, and even HE wouldn’t assume to make such a claim.”

“But I have, I have seen it before.  No, I do not pretend to be fluent in it, or even understand any of it.  But I HAVE seen it before.”

“Alright then,”  Merlock replies with a deep breath.  “Where?”

“I…I don’t remember.”

This makes the others in the room laugh, causing the bard to flush with anger.

“You know what?”  Fafnir says, the only other one in the room who wasn’t laughing.  “I don’t give a spit WHAT language it’s in.  Is it silver or not?  If not, then what the bloody hells IS IT?!”

“Aye, an’ how much is it worth?  I bled enough for it, whatever it is.”  Winces the barbarian.

The mage looks back at the bard, silently daring him to say it.  If it WAS Enochian script printed on the coins, then that could only mean one thing.  But the bard, who obviously believes he is right, has his wide eyes fixed upon the coin.

“Platinum.”  He breaths the word with reverence, almost whispering it.

“An’ what the hells is plat’num?”  Asks the barbarian, who by this time is starting to get agitated.  “How much is it worth?”

“Never you mind about platinum, Vigorn.”  The priest is looking at his bandage work across the barbarian’s abdomen as he speaks, looking pleased with his work.  “There’s no such thing as platinum in this world.  If there was,”  he looks up to the treasure hoard where the others are standing before returning his sagely gaze to the titanic blond man.  “Each piece would be worth more then all your tribes’ wealth combined.”

“OK, they are not THAT poor.”  Retorts the ranger, picking up a handful of coins.  “But maybe ten coins would be.”  He smirks.

“So, what,” asks the rogue, trying to maintain control on his temper, “are we talking value around silver or gold here?”

“How do you put a price on a legendary metal, Fafnir?”  Asks the mage.

“Give ’em to me.  I’ll find someone who will.”  Returns the rogue.

“Aye,” Vigorn snorts, “but will we ever find you?”  At that the rogue only smiles, even though the barbarian’s tone was far from jesting.

“I once heard a legend that said that the currency of the angels was measured by the hoards of men.”  Muses the ranger.

“Scripture tells us that Enochian coins are worth one hundred pieces of gold.”  Adds the priest.

“One hundred pieces?  Full pieces, or penny pieces?”  The rogue is as intent on this conversation as a dog is when chewing a choice bone, the ranger notes to himself.

“Full.”  Cadfael relpies, getting up.  He reaches out a hand to help Vigorn stand, but the latter brushes his offer off with annoyance before standing up, painfully, on his own.  Cadfael walks and Vigorn shuffles over to see this fantastical treasure for themselves.

“Well whatever these bloody things are made of, how much…ho…”  The barbarian stops cold as he takes in the treasure’s sight.

“Hmm,” muses the priest.  “You are right about it not tarnishing.  Not one bit, very strange.”

The mage tosses his coin back into the pile and begins to scrabble around for the tablets once more.

“There are ways to tell platinum from silver.”  Amerigen offers.

“And how would you know this, bard?  Hmm?”  Asks Cadfael.

“The same as you, father.”  The bard returns.  “It tells us in the Book of Enoch.”

“And since when do heathens read scripture?”

“When did I say I was a pagan?”

“Alright, then when do drunken, lecherous minstrels read scripture?”

“When there is neither wine nor women to distract them, of course.”

“Ha!”  Laughs the barbarian.  “Meaning never.”

“No, meaning rarely.”  Returns the bard, to which the barbarian lets out a hearty guffaw, before stopping suddenly and grimacing from the pain in his side.

“Stop that, Vigorn.  I will not be spending all day fixing your bandages every time you titter.”

The barbarian looks offended.  “When have I ever…”tittered?!”

“Oh, by the gods…”  Fafnir buries his face in his hands, messaging his forehead with fingertips.  “Mayhap none of you have pressing debts to pay, but I do.”  He drops his hands to the edge of the sarcophagus to steady himself.  The stress of this was wearing his nerves thin.  “I need to know if I am going to have enough to square myself, or failing that, to keep on the move.”

“Who do you owe, Fafnir?”  Asks the ranger.  “A king?  The emperor?  Did you lose an army or something?”  He tosses a tangerine-sized gem to him.  “That alone should more then pay off any debts you owe.”

“Oi!”  Blurts out the barbarian.  “That’s commin’ out of his share!”  The ranger just rolls his eye.

The mage, for his part seems to have found something of interest and proceeds to pull out a large, dull gray stone slab, flicking off some of the coins from it’s surface.

Fafnir takes a deep breath, pocketing the gem.  “OK, so how does this Enoch suggest we determine if these coins are platinum or just really shiney, non-tarnishing silver pieces?”

“Well,” Cadfael says, trying to recall the passages from memory, “It does look like silver, but brighter.  And like gold, it never tarnishes.”

“Like these.”  Adds the bard.

“The metal is supposed to be very dense.”  Merlock says, weighing a coin in his hand.  “Anyone have any silver pieces on hand?”

“Why?”  Asks the ranger?

Merlock meets Draighean’s gaze.  “To compare weights.”

“We have no scales.”  Replies the priest.

“We don’t need them.  Enoch claims that platinum is much heavier then an equal amount of silver.  Heavier even then lead.  Or so he claims.”

“Now I am to believe YOU read scripture, as well?”  Cadfael asks, clearly surprised and even a bit annoyed.

“I told you I was a scribe.  I was transcribing passages of Nehemiah casting fire at the Frozen Lord long before I could throw fire at Minotaurs.”  Merlock says, gesturing to the still smoldering corpse of the large bull-man just outside the doorway.

Cadfael chortles, almost a sneer on his lips.  “Nehemiah is apocrypha, at best.”

“Tell that to the recently retired guardian of this place.”  Replies the mage, himself getting irritated.  “You know, the one who was standing before the room with this treasure, the treasure we only knew about from reading your so called ‘dubious scripture.'”

“It also never wears,” interjects the bard, trying to defuse the rising tensions in the room.  “Just as these coins look fresh from the mint.”

“Aye,” Fafnir says, rubbing a coin between his fingers before it disappears, “but it’s not like they’ve seen much usage, sitting in here.”

“That is also coming out of your share.”  Vigorn replies, hard eyes on the rogue.  Fafnir pretends not to hear.

Merlock starts searching his pockets for some silver pieces as the ranger speaks to the group.  “Whatever this coin is, we still have the task of getting it out of here.  We will need bags, sacks, some sort of containers…”

“And how do we know how much will be…lost…in transit?”  Vigorn asks, eyes still on the rogue.

“What the bloody hells is that supposed to mean, oaf?”

“What do you think it means, thief?”

“…to get it out of here and…”

“I’ve had about enough of you and all of your slurs on my honor, Vigorn.”

“…get it back…”

“Honor?!  HAH!  And what sort of ‘honor amongst thieves’ is there, anyways?”

“…to civilization…”

“More then is found among you horse-humpers, I’d imagine!”

“…or we can just all sit here and attack each other…”

“GAH!  You little…”  Vigorn lashes out to strike at Fafnir, only to miss horribly and seize up from the pain of the sharp movement.

“Hah!  Serves you right, oaf!”

“Stop this!  NOW!”  Yells out the priest.  But his normally commanding tone is lost on the other two.  He turns around to the mage and says “Do something!”  To which the mage only replies “Like what?”  Soon they too begin to yell at each other.  Sighing, the ranger presses the torch into the bard’s hands and walks back to his gear to retrieve his wineskin, then walks over and sits on the chest of the dead minotaur just outside the doorway.  He knows they can’t be reasoned with at this point, so he might as well dull some of his own aches with a little fire-gold mead.  He uses the length of his longbow to pull over a skeleton’s ribcage from within the room to prop up his feet as he rest’s his back on the wall, but the thing only crumbles beneath his weight.

At one point, Fafnir pulls out a dagger, to which Vigorn unsheathes his battle axe.  The shouting is starting to get alarmingly violent.  Cadfael begins to pray in an angry tone as Merlock grabs his staff that is resting on the edge of the sarcophagus and slams it’s butt on the floor, causing the crystal imbedded at it’s crown to start glowing a menacing red.

Angry now, Draighean tosses the wineskin aside and grabs his bow.  Walking inside to face the doorway, he nocks and arrow and aims outside.  Loosing the arrow, he hits his intended mark, a trap-switch paving stone set outside the doorway that triggers the heavy adamantine door mechanism itself.  It was easy enough to spot, now that it had been circled with some chalk.  The large slab of metal-like stone immediately falls down, silencing the room with its deafening crash and trapping them all within.

After the resulting cloud of dust clears and a bit of coughing, Cadfael yells to the ranger.  “By the mercy of the gods, man!  Why the hells did you do that?!”

“What do any of you care?”  He sneers.  “At the rate all of you are going, I doubt anyone here would ever make it to the other side of this door, open or closed.”

“What are you babbling about, yeoman?  How the bloody hells are we supposed to get out now?!”  Yells the rogue.

“Now I know what this bloody curse is all about.”

“There is no curse, ranger.”  Replies the priest.

“Aye,”  adds the visibly distressed barbarian, a spot of pink forming at the center of his bandages.  “You said so yourself!  ‘So much for the bloody curse’ you says after we managed to get that bloody thing open!”

“We?”  Merlock replies.

Vigorn ignores the mage.  “What the hells are we supposed to do now?!”

“Calm down and stop fighting for one.”  Draighean replies.  Cutting off the priest he continues.  “There is a curse, but none enforced by the gods above, or below.”

The others go silent, waiting to hear what the ranger is getting at.

“Isn’t it obvious?  We are the curse.  We brought it here.  We bring it with us everywhere.  Likely we always have.  Likely we always will.”

“Great, Draighean’s gone daft.”  Says the rogue.  “He’s talking like Father Holier-then-thou over here.”

“What curse are you talking about, Draighean?”  Asks the mage, clearly piqued.

“Contempt.  Suspicion.  Greed.”

No one answers.

“As soon as we opened that stone box and beheld the treasure within, it’s like everyone went mad with greed.  Then the accusations started.”

“He started it, with his ‘its coming out of your share’ bit!”  Yelled the rogue.

“And you continued it with relish.”  Adds the ranger.  “All of you.  Rather then picking up what we could and getting the hells out of here, you had to start squawking at each other like a bunch of nobles over a king’s still-warm corpse.”

“Fine.”  Answers Cadfael.  “It seems that even a pagan freeman from the heathenness can teach us all a moral lesson now and again.  You are right.  You have made your point.  Now how do you suggest we unmake it’s consequences?  How are we to open that door now?”

“Same way we did before.”

“The mechanisms were on the other side, Draighean.”  Replies the mage.

“And how did the crafters of this place get in and out?”

“It’s a tomb.  You aren’t supposed to be able to get out.”

“No, it’s a treasure room.  There’s no point in treasure if you can’t bring any of it out to use it.”

“They probably did that by leaving the door open when they came in.”  Retorts the thief.

“It would make no sense to allow a doorway to be opened from the outside, where thieves lurked, but not inside, where they did not.”  Replies the ranger.

“Unless they did that to trap anyone inside who wasn’t supposed to be in here in the first place, like us.”

“Then why place the trap mechanism on the outside of the door?”

“To stop any who did not enter already, and trap those that did.  Oh, gods.  Were done for.”  Fafnir re-sheathes his blade and sits down, his face buried in his hands.  The barbarian, too sits down, clearly in a lot of pain.

“The king that used to own this place…”  Amerigen starts.

“Emperor.”  Merlock corrects.

“The emperor…dealt with a lot of revolts, did he not?”

“Yes.”

“Where better to retreat to if things got too…hairy?”

The priest looks from the ranger back to the bard.  “What do you mean?  What are you getting at?”

“Well, this room is the most secure of the palace, set deep below the dungeons, below even the catacombs.”

“Aye.  We’re well aware of that, boy.”  Says the barbarian, grimacing as he holds his side.

“So this is the most secure room in the entire palace. The entire realm, even.  The best place to put what you valued.”

“And?”

“And so this would be the perfect place to retreat to if things got too out of hand, so out of hand that it looked like the rebels, or invading enemies, were beyond the control of the palace guards.”

“Nice theory,”  quips the priest.  “Assuming that was thought of by the Emperor Asoka, the so-called ‘Great,’ and carried out by his descendants and their engineers, where does that get us?”

“Well, it’s like Draighean said, ‘what’s the use of putting something in a room if you cant get it out?’  And in the case of a, well, safe room for the royal persons, they would want to have a way to get out on their own.”

At that, Fafnir looks up from his hands.  “Another secret passage?”

“Aye,”  Draighean adds, “this place has enough of those.  Why not one in here?”

“And where would such a passage lead?”  Asks the priest.

“Out.”  Replies the ranger.

“Yes, I am aware of that.  But out to where, exactly?”

“And how the hells would he know that?”  Asks the rogue.

“We don’t need to, as long as it’s out of here.”  Replies Merlock.

“If things got that bad,”  muses the ranger, “a passage out of here would not lead back to the palace.  Or if it did, likely to the emperor’s chambers.  And more likely to somewhere outside the palace itself.”

“An escape route!”  This thought fills the rogue with hope.  All at once, people begin to rush to the walls, hands searching for the precious tell-tale sign of a hidden doorway.

“As soon as I get out of this accursed place,”  Vigorn says to the rogue, I am going to spend some of those coins, whatever they are, on a whole room full of whores!”

“And that’s coming out of your share.”  Replies the rogue, to which the barbarian laughs before grimacing in pain.

“Stop that, Vigorn.  I won’t tell you again!”

It seems like a lifetime searching the walls before the rogue squeals in delight.  “I found something!”  He says, just to the left of the door.

“Another door?”  Asks the warrior.

“No,” the rogue replies.  “But a compartment, one with gears behind it.  It may be what we are looking for.  It may open this one.”

The bard sighs, strumming her lyre.  “I hope so, the damp of this place is starting to get to me.”

The mage smiles.  “Such is the cost of treasure hunting.  But a lot more is here then in any perfumed alehouse.”

“I suppose…”  The bard picks at a soothing chord as the thief works at the gears behind the tiny compartment.

After a few minutes of the rogue saying “Got it!  Er, wait…OK, got it!  Bah!”  There sounds a large ‘CLICK,’ after which comes the groaning of rusty metal deep behind stone.  Slowly, almost grudgingly the slab of the door rises, spilling off more dust.  After the billowing clouds subside, the warrior enters the room, sword and shield at the ready.  The druid is right behind with a torch, giving light to this new room.

Pushing the large bestial-looking skeleton aside from the door, the little rogue enters behind the warrior, followed by the bard and the sorceress.  The battle-rager dwarf comes in last, covering their rear.  They all look into the room, dominated in the center by a large, long stone box, spilling over with coins and gems that glitter in the low torchlight.  The floor of the treasure room is littered with over a dozen skeletons, many looked to have died fighting amongst themselves.

“You see that, Ulgar?”  Says the little halfling thief to the dwarven barbarian, who despite his fearsome tattoos and spiked, fiery red hair, seems altogether spooked by the place.  The dwarf’s attention is focused an ancient, empty wineskin by his foot.

“I told you that ‘curse’ business was all nonsense…”

fin

S.E.F.A.