The Elf paused. “Yeah, the Necropolish.”

“I believe it’s pronounced⁠—”

“Technically, it’s Stennish Site Nineteen, the Suspected Necropolis, Druidic Site, or Temple City,” Kaitha interrupted loudly. “It’s a group of underground buildings that nobody can define, but it’s got similarities to a lot of temples and everybody who lived there is dead. It’s like a necropolis. It’s the Necropolish.”

“How clever,” said Jynn, though his face said the opposite.

Gorm shivered despite his heavy cloak. “Only been there once, and years ago, but I can still remember all the creepy broken statues and huge carvings.”

“The important point is that it’s deadly.” Kaitha pointed to the illustrations around the region. “There are traps. There are monsters that haven’t been categorized yet, dark things that crawl up from the Underheart. There are high pathways over chasms you can’t see the bottom of, but if you fall, pray the drop kills you because the gods alone know what kind of horrors are down there. Most of the heroes that go questing in the Necropolish never return. And those of us who have returned… well, I haven’t talked to anyone who didn’t lose a party member along the way.”

“Me either,” sighed Gorm.

“And outside of Johan, nobody has ever claimed to see the other side of it,” said Kaitha, sweeping her hand to the blank heart of the dungeon. “Beyond the Necropolish is the Black Fathoms, and somewhere within that darkness is where the dragon is supposed to lie.” Her finger came to rest on a large woodcut of the sleeping wyrm. “But nobody can say where, or how deep.”

Heraldin traced the air with his fingers, lining up some basic geometry. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to climb up the mountain, find a cavern, and make our way down? We wouldn’t have to be much higher than the Pinnacle before we’d pass the Necropolish.”

Kaitha pointed at the blank area at the top of the map, just inside Andarun’s Pinnacle. “If we were to try to make our way through unmapped stone, we’d as likely find a dead end as a straight drop all the way to the Underheart. The slopes are riddled with unmapped passages, and outside of the city the mountain is riddled with gnurgs, Frost Reavers, Snow Drakes, Dire Goats, and worse. Guild heroes have been trying to map the upper entrances for decades, and they rarely come back. It’s far too risky to take an unknown route.”

“Besides, Johan may have cleared a path for us,” Laruna added. “If we can stick to his route, we can move much faster.”

“True. Our best chance of a path to the mountain center is the Low Way,” Kaitha affirmed. “And even then, it’ll likely be a dangerous slog filled with deadly foes.”

“And for that, you’ll need gear!” Boomer rumbled from the back.

Gorm grinned. “That we will. Ready to show us the latest?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” said Boomer, hopping up from the desk.

“Not without prompting, apparently,” Gorm heard Buster mutter as the pair took Kaitha’s place in the front of the room. “Have a little patience.”

“I can’t wait—we… there’s no time!” Thane roared, running across the yard in a panic. “I need to pack! I need my things!”

“I know. I know.” Duine Poldo spoke in his most soothing tones from the shelter of the house, but it was like trying to calm a passing thunderstorm. “Can you tell me why, though?”

“She’s in—they’re all in danger!” The Troll rumbled past, carrying his bandolier and several small satchels across the yard. A Wood Gnome clung to the fur on Thane’s back, with another hanging from his feet, and another from hers, and so on, forming a chain of Domovoy that trailed after the Troll like a banner.

“Who is? What?” Poldo leaned out the cottage door, but he didn’t dare walk out into the courtyard while the Troll was in such a state. Already, the rock wall had two massive holes in it and the lean-to was more of a slump-down thanks to Thane’s hysterics. It wasn’t safe to be underfoot.

The Wood Gnomes clearly agreed. As Thane threw the packs down in the lean-to, the chain of Domovoy dangling from his fur swung low enough to grab their kin emerging from the bushes. It stood to reason that the safest place to be during a Troll rampage was behind the Troll.

As Poldo watched the rescue effort, he felt Red Squirrel crawl up his shoulder. “What is all this about?” he asked the Wood Gnome.

Red Squirrel chirruped in his ear.

“Oh, the Elf? She and her party are in some danger?”

Red Squirrel chittered a response. Thane charged past, the streamer of Wood Gnomes waving in his wake.

“The Dragon of Wynspar?”

The response was an extended sequence of squeaks, chirrups, and piping notes.

“My gods. The Heroes of the City sent to slay the dragon…” Poldo trailed into a thoughtful silence. He turned to look into his little farmhouse and through the hall door at the small office he’d set up. It was still sparsely furnished, but cozy and warm nonetheless. More importantly, it was safe. Escaping the Hookhand and coming to Mistkeep had given him a new lease on life, and one with most favorable terms. With the Wood Gnomes’ aid, an office like this, and the resources he held in the bank, he could be running a successful hedge fund in a month or two. He had everything he needed to start all over again.

Which meant he had a chance to do everything differently.

“Come on. We’ll go too,” he said to Red Squirrel.

The Domovoy rocked back on his heels and nearly fell from Poldo’s shoulder. Rapid-fire protests squeaked in Poldo’s ear.

“Yes, I know. But we only made it this far with his help. And now he needs our help.”

Across the yard, Thane tripped in his panic and spilled the contents of his bandoliers. With a roar of frustration, he fell to his knees.

“Clearly,” said Poldo. “He’ll wind up getting branded a foe for sure if we can’t calm him.”

Red Squirrel chirruped sullenly.

“And there will be hazard pay for all of you, of course.”

The Wood Gnome leapt to attention and chittered something across the yard. A cheer went up from the diminutive crowd clinging to Thane’s back as Poldo tramped over to the muddy spot where Thane was gathering up his dropped papers and purple trinkets.

The Troll caught the Gnome’s eye as Poldo approached. “I have to go.” Thane’s voice shook with desperation and apology. “I have to help them. Help her.”

“I know,” said Poldo, bending over to pick up a string of purple beads. “We’re here to help pack.”

Chapter 20

“Packing is three-quarters of preparation, and preparation is ninety percent of success,” said Boomer. The tattooed Gnome and his Gremlin partner beamed at the heroes from behind the sales podium. “Nothing’s more crucial to a successful trip than having the right gear, and Creative Destruction offers a line of dungeon delver packages designed to maximize your chances of completing your quest. Now, your basic adventuring package consists⁠—”

“Save the basics, Boomer. We’ll take the deluxe,” Gorm said.

“Eh?” said the Gnome.

“The deluxe. The big package. The kits with all the premium potions and sealed provisions and unbreakable ropes and waxed matches for the smokeless torches.”

“We use glowstones now,” said Buster.

“Great! Whatever ye say. Ye two know what adventurers need, ye always have a special, deluxe kit ye try to sell parties on, and we’re on the kingdom’s coin today, so get us the best ye got. And then,” Gorm leaned forward in his chair and growled through his grin, “show us your good stuff.”

The Gremlin protested. “But you’re buying our best⁠—”

“None of your mass produced pre-marketed packages.” The Dwarf waved dismissively at the shelves of product lining the walls. “I want to see the really good stuff! The stuff that ain’t for sale yet. The stuff ye ain’t sure the guild regulators will allow!”

“But—” Buster began, but Boomer wrapped a silencing arm around his shoulder and interjected.