The Death Trap With one eye towards the canyon they had already traversed, in case the bats or something even worse made an appearance, and one keeping watch over the entrance to the lonely tower, the heroes examined their injuries, cleaning and binding them until the bleeding stopped and the pain subsided. While her companions were busy tending to their injuries, Devari picked up her kimanjah and started playing, her bow bringing the instruments chords to life by making them vibrate gently. It hadnt been long since the kimanjah was in her possession, an unexpected gift from an unexpected source, but she was already playing it like an expert. Her mother had often boasted about her daughters talent in music and the nimbleness of her fingers and in this, at least, she had been right.
The sounds generated by the kimanjah, a musical instrument beloved by the people of Khur, were sharper than those of the lyre and more melancholic than those of the lute. They filled the air with a sweetness that was mixed with sorrow, an emotion that seemed to suit the mood perfectly . It was the first time in over five hundred years that music was heard in the valley of Hurim.
The sound of the kimanjah washed over the companions, calming their hearts and soothing their anxiety. Though Devari was no longer capable of experiencing the strong emotions that had not too long ago been an integral part of who she was, she was practically shocked to witness the beauty that was hidden inside this small musical instrument. Its music brought her back, way way back, and she remembered her days on the stage, dancing in an exotic dress, as colorful as it was revealing, to the joyful sounds of the tambourine played by her mother, while little Amare clapped excitedly, cheering for her sister. She had been happy in those days, she realized, truly and perfectly happy, even though the everyday problems of the small family had not allowed her to realize it sooner. Tears coursed down her cheeks and she made no attempt to wipe them off. On the contrary, she displayed them proudly, for it was proof that her heart did more than just pump blood to the rest of her body.
Others were deeply touched by the music as well. Talia remembered the many hours spent with her father, patiently poring over maps of constellations or watching the skies intently, trying to discover the mysteries of the cosmos. For her, it had always been more about understanding the mysteries of her fathers affliction, the fear, the caution, the sadness, emotions that had been unfamiliar to the small kender. Through the music of the kimanjah, Talia was now able to get a taste of what had shaped her fathers life, if not fully experience his pain. It was like staring at a mirror and realizing that the two Talias, the real one and the reflection, were similar but not the same. So too had been her father, both like and unlike her. The kenders mouth felt dry and her eyes started burning, making Talia feel miserable and wonderful at the same time.
Hope too was reminded of the myriad moments that had led her to Hurim. She remembered her fathers smile, his soft voice as he gave her every explanation her curiosity demanded. The kindness of her grandmother, pretending not to see her sneaking inside the library and then suddenly winking at her like some mischievous street urchin. She relived the old womans frailty as she lovingly squeezed her hand for the last time. The many evenings spent with her special friend, evenings that were so beautiful that she feared her heart would burst. She recalled hours and hours of study, the words coming alive in her mind, arrogant Kingpriests and gentle elven queens, evil dragons breathing fire and ice, lightning, acid and toxic gas and armies of Solamnic Knights in glistening armor riding their warhorses, gloomy towers of high sorcery and grand temples of pure white marble dedicated to Paladine. Page upon page upon page of history that made her heart beat faster and was undeniable proof that life was worth living.
Though Devaris companions welcomed her gift, the valley itself resented the music, the high walls of the canyon rebuffing it and turning it back to its source. The repetition made it sound discordant and chaotic, a fact registered immediately by Tegan. But the purity at the core of the songstress playing was beyond even the power of Hurims curse. It could not be compromised, neither could it be corrupted. It shone brighter than the pale sun and filled the companions hearts with warmth and courage and hope.
They were now ready to face whatever waited for them inside the watchtower. They were now ready to face Hurims tragic past.
The huge door that had barred the entrance to the watchtower, reinforced with metal and ten times thicker than Tegans shield, had been broken down either by brute force or powerful magic and turned to dust long, long ago. The only thing that remained were small pieces of metal, badly rusted and bent beyond recognition of their original purpose. Peering through the open doorway, the companions could see a series of unusual rooms. A hallway, 10 feet wide and 30 feet long, sporting a multitude of arrow slits, led to a much smaller doorway than the entrance to the tower. The ground was littered with skeletal remains, most of which had disintegrated into dust. However, a few large skulls, and even complete skeletons buried in the dust lent a clue to the invaders who died on the Night of Betrayal - ogres by the size of them.
All that remained of the invaders and defenders of the watchtower
Deeper into the tower, the trail of skeletons began to shift slightly, as more and more smaller skeletons mingled with the larger bones of the ogres. Each door had been battered down, torn off its hinges and splintered, leaving only fractured wood that had long since petrified. Along the walls, the companions saw where attempts had been made to break down the thick stone, with numerous holes in the walls large enough for a kender or an ascetic gnome to squeeze through.
Even the floor had suffered from the merciless assault of the ogres and especially the ravages of time, the thick supporting timbers having grown brittle and dry and no longer able to support the weight of the heavy stone slabs and that of any individual stepping on them. The floor at the towers north-eastern corner had been damaged especially badly and it took a combination of sharp, elven eyes and Talias natural agility for the kender not to end up tumbling into the darkness through a hole large enough to swallow her whole. Undeterred, the fearless kender dusted herself off and peered inside, happy to have discovered that the place actually had a cellar!
Only a short time later, Isandril discovered a more conventional, if less fun and dangerous, way into the towers basem*nt: twin trap doors, almost fully hidden beneath a thick layer of scattered bones and desert sand, that time had hardened so much that they resembled true stone. A half-hearted attempt to lift them remained unsuccessful. It would take more than the slender arms of a Silvanesti mage to make them budge.
A few feet away, there was another pair of trap doors, though not in the floor as the ones Isandril had discovered, but in the ceiling, leading no doubt to the watchtowers upper levels. They too had been petrified and weighed as much as solid stone. Standing 15 feet off the floor, it would take a good amount of ingenuity to reach them and an equal amount of physical prowess to open them, in case the companions wanted to reach the top floor so that they could have a good look of the entire valley.
As most of the companions searched for a solution to the problem of the trap doors, Xihue couldnt help but feel that he was being watched. From a young age, the shepherd had learnt to trust his instincts and the chill running down his spine was a clear indication that the companions werent alone inside the tower. Someone else was there too, though perhaps not of the same nature as the party of brave explorers. And yet, no matter how long and hard the Alan-Atu looked, he could not spot anything out of the ordinary - except perhaps for shadows occasionally moving without clear cause, ignoring the laws of nature.
Could it be that the curse had affected even the shadow cast by the sunlight as it streamed through the narrow windows and murder holes? And if so, how did one capture a living shadow?
