The Riches of Xulthar

Prologue

Long had the plague years ravaged the land. No household was left unscathed by it, no graveyard left unfilled. Crops rotted unharvested in the fields while towns and villages lay devoid of inhabitants. At first, the cities swelled with migrants fleeing the specter of death, only to fall as the refugees spread the shadow of the reaper further across the land.

No kingdom escaped the devastation, and no principality emerged unspotted from the plague. The mightiest empires fell into ruin as famine followed pestilence, with the dogs of war harrying the heels of both. As the high priests died, they bitterly cursed the old gods, their acolytes despairing of salvation or relief. A thousand altars ran red with rivers of blood, from sacrifice both human and animal. But it was all to no avail.

As days turned to months and months turned to years, it seemed that all of creation had been thrown into utter chaos. Wars raged across entire continents as nations sought to defend their crumbling borders from hordes of hungry invaders. Kings were humbled, emperors were brought low, and the mighty were mocked as if valor were but a bad jest. The common people watched helplessly as their homes were burned to the ground, their meager wealth plundered, and their children enslaved. Driven to desperation, many took up arms and joined the invading hordes until scourge or sword claimed them.

The rains refused to fall in their season, and the once-fertile fields that lay fallow for lack of labor now turned to dust as the deserts reclaimed their own. Lands that had been settled since before living memory now became as barren as the wastes. As empty towns and abandoned cities turned to crumbling ruins, the cultivated lands reverted to desolate wilderness, devoid of culture and civilization.

The old religions could offer neither comfort nor solace, and thus passed away with the old order. So also with the schools of the philosophers and the circles of the wizards and sorcerers. Even merchants failed to ply their trade, and for a time, all commerce and intercourse ceased. The few survivors hoarded their dwindling supplies and guarded them fiercely against any who dared approach.

But the plague years did not continue forever. After the destruction and chaos had run its fated course, the pestilence finally relented, and life slowly returned to the land. The survivors banded together, pooling their meager resources and working together to rebuild their world. Cautiously, they returned to the wreckage of their homes and villages, reclaiming the darkened ruins. Many lives were claimed by new outbreaks of the plague, but these were mostly local, for the survivors were sufficiently hardened to dampen its spread.

As the villages were resettled and the towns were rebuilt, the demand for trade goods grew tremendously. Merchants began again to venture out across the shattered land, risking their lives on bandit-infested roads in search of profit. Unfortunately, the death of commerce had made coin scarce, and those who most needed the goods were the ones least able to pay. Some merchants turned to barter, but the soldiers who guarded the caravans demanded payment in gold. The few who foolishly traveled without guard swiftly fell prey to bandits and thieves.

It was during these challenging times that the coin of Xulthar first appeared. Centuries before, the city of Xulthar had been the center of culture for the entire civilized world. Legend held that its treasuries had overflowed with gold and silver, gems and jewels, and treasures of every kind. Before the plague years, many dismissed these stories as fanciful tales, but as the coin of Xulthar circulated freely, interest in the legendary city was renewed.

Merchants whispered of the rise of a dark and powerful sorcerer who had discovered the secrets of the lost city and claimed its incredible treasure for his own. Some said that he was a demon in human form, while others claimed he was a man who could tame the very desert and make it blossom as the rose. For according to the legends, Xulthar had been one of the greatest cities of the world—a city of sorcerers and scholars, of merchants and artisans, of powerful princes and opulent patricians. The city’s wealth had come not only from its auspicious location amidst the most important trade routes, but also from its rich and abundant mines, full of rare gems and precious metals. But either the people of Xulthar delved too deep or their wizards unlocked some great and tremendous evil, for the legends said that the great city fell in a single day.

In spite of these legends—or indeed, perhaps because of them—the coin of Xulthar became a symbol of stability in a time of chaos, though no one knew exactly how it had begun to circulate. Many bold adventurers set out to find the lost city, but not one of them ever returned. Still, few were willing to complain, as the steady flow of trade brought wealth and prosperity to all who accepted it. Without the coin of Xulthar, the survivors of the plague years would have found it far more difficult to rebuild.

But as the coin of Xulthar spread across the land, it began to have a strange effect upon those who held it. Farmers and tradesmen who obtained their wealth through hard work and honest enterprise found that it slowly fled them, insomuch that they would save a single coin for fear of losing it. On the other hand, greedy princes, unscrupulous merchants, and those who made their fortunes through corruption and graft found that their riches grew with the counting of it, as if the sorcerous coin multiplied like rabbits within their unseen vaults.

To those who dared to see the truth, it soon became clear that the coin of Xulthar was cursed. And yet, few dared to point this out, for those who profited the most by the curse were chiefly those of power and high birth. The brave and honest souls who spoke out about the curse soon found themselves exiled in disgrace, their lands seized, their titles revoked, and their wealth confiscated.

And so, as the plague years came to a close, a much more subtle and insidious scourge began to spread throughout the land. For by some dark sorcery that few recognized and fewer understood, the cursed coin of Xulthar corrupted the souls of all who sought it and magnified the dark desires lurking within the human heart. It was as if the coin had a mind of its own, twisting the souls of those who bought and sold with it—though toward what dark and devious end, not even the wise and prudent could tell.

The Sibyl’s Warning

Roderick

I know why you seek the lost city, the old crone said as she peered over the top of her crystal ball. But the riches you find there shall bring you naught but evil and sorrow.

Roderick the Young of House Valtan rolled his shoulders back as his sharp eyes scanned the fortune teller from head to toe. His broad hand unconsciously brushed the hilt of his sword, which had seen more use than most of its kind. Unlike most of the nobleborn these days, his boots were worn and caked with dust, his arms bronzed and his face lined and weathered from the wind of the open road—a testament to the hard times that had befallen his house. But Roderick was not one to let the whims of fate define him.

What do you mean, old woman? Speak your prophecy.

The robes of the haggard old sibyl were faded and tattered, and over them she wore a threadbare shawl as old and gray as she. A woman of her profession could easily amass a small fortune spinning false and flattering tales—all the more so for the curse that multiplied the coin of liars and cheats and shrank it for honest men. Indeed, this very soothsayer could be putting on a sham, her wealth discreetly hidden beneath a facade of beggary and dearth.

But Roderick did not think so. He had carefully watched the old crone for several days, searching for signs of deceit. Now, inside her tent, he had even more opportunity to scrutinize her. Everything he saw convinced him that she was, indeed, an honest prophetess, for only an honest one could be this poor.

You bear little resemblance to the other young adventurers who seek the riches of Xulthar, the crone cackled. Unlike those fools, you are a man of honor in an honorless world—a soul cast adrift by the cruel winds of fate, through no failing of your own. Your father—

If I wanted flattery, I would have gone to one of the popular soothsayers, with their silk tents and their gilded tongues. Do not try to butter me up, old hag. I have no appetite for obsequious lies.

Old hag? the woman shrieked. Your uncouth tongue will bring you no favors, young lord—though you did not need to seek me out to learn that! No, I perceive you have come to learn whether your efforts to restore your family’s honor will meet with success, or failure.

Aye, said Roderick, inwardly pleased that the sibyl had divined the true nature of his quest. Still, he brooded impatiently as she peered into her crystal ball.

Behold! she began, her voice a deathly hiss that sent shivers coursing through his veins. I see a city of unimaginable riches and treasure, guarded by an infernal force of the darkest sorcery. You will face this dark force, Roderick of House Valtan.

And will I defeat it? he asked, his blood running cold.

The old woman paused until the silence was nearly palpable. Even if you do, she answered at length, it will not restore your house to its former glory, nor right the wrongs that you and your family have suffered.

Her prophecy stabbed him like a dagger to the heart. Honor and duty compelled him to do all within his power to restore his family’s house, and nothing short of the fabled riches of the lost city would enable him to accomplish that now. To hear the sibyl prophesy that his quest would come to naught was almost enough to crush him.

Will I fail, then? he asked softly, refusing to give in to despair.

She clucked her tongue. The future is not set in stone, young lord. You, not I, have the power to shape your destiny.

Roderick scowled. I did not come into your tent to hear platitudes, old woman. Scry into your stone and tell me what will be if I defeat this dark sorcerer and seize the riches of Xulthar for my own.

The crone’s eyes glinted in the dim candlelight as she stared once again into the depths of her crystal ball. I see naught but a life of suffering and misery for you, my lord. The riches you seek are cursed beyond measure. If you do not turn from this path, the cost will be immense, even if you prove victorious.

But if I do not take this path, my house will never be restored. My family’s honor will be disgraced forever.

As you say, young lord.

And even if the cause of my house is truly hopeless, he continued, hardly hearing her, then for honor’s sake alone, I must avenge our fall.

To that, the old crone said nothing.

I must seek the city of Xulthar, Roderick argued, clenching his calloused fist. I have come too far and sacrificed too much to take the coward’s path and turn from my destiny. Tell me, woman, what must I do to prepare? What must I take with me to defeat the dark power that resides in the ruins?

The sibyl consulted her stone. You must remain true to your cause, she counseled. If you do not allow yourself to be swayed or tempted away, fate will provide all that you need to claim victory.

But even if I do, the honor and wealth of my house will not be restored?

The crone nodded solemnly, her aged and wrinkled face softening with sympathy. But beware, young lord! The evil that lurks within those ruins is so great that even I cannot foresee how your fate intertwines with it.

Roderick grunted in grim resignation, and his eyes narrowed and hardened with resolve. It is better to meet a star-crossed end with sword in hand than to take the coward’s path. If this is to be my destiny, I will not turn from it.

He adjusted his scabbard and turned to leave. As soon as his back was turned, the crystal began to glow anew.

There is something else, the old crone prophesied, her gaze fixated on the vision within the ball. I see a young woman, slender and fair…

But Roderick had already stepped out of her sun-faded tent, his mind consumed with dark and brooding thoughts.

Roderick

The tavern was as dark and smoky as the hot afternoon sky was bright and clear. Roderick narrowed his eyes as he peered at the long wooden tables, which were mostly unoccupied at this hour. A raven-haired wench scrubbed the table nearest to him, her apron stained black with spilled food and drink. She straightened as Roderick approached her.

Milord, she greeted him with a curtsy.

He ignored her for the moment as he scanned the hall. Three scrawny chickens roasted on a spit over the coals in the fireplace, while the fat, balding barkeep mindlessly cleaned pewter mugs behind the bar. A warm breeze blew through the unshuttered windows, only marginally cooling the air. Then his ears caught the sound of laughter, and in the far corner, he found the party he sought.

My friends, he muttered, pointing to the two men. The tavern wench nodded and smiled, and he passed her without another word.

Rod! said Andrej, slapping Roderick heartily on the back. It’s good to see you, friend. Care for a drink?

Roderick raised an eyebrow. At this early hour?

Why not? Jura said merrily from across