by C. M. Carney
With a Herculean effort, Simon lifted the lid and his permanent frown expanded into a huge smile. Had anyone else been there to see the grin, they would have flinched, not only for the lack of good oral hygiene but for the pure sociopathic greed. However, after laying their eyes upon the weapon inside the chest, any observer would forgive the grin. Without realizing he’d done so, Simon instinctively activated the bläärt talent Smellify.
You have found The Oblivion Blade.
Item Class: Divine Artifact - Item Category: Active/Passive
The Oblivion Blade was crafted from the raw Aether by four of the five Princes of Chaos to forever bind the fifth, Baelmaera, the Lady of Plots and Shadows.
The Oblivion Blade acts as a permanent mana-sink and absorbs all magical attacks and effects whether they be active or passive. It then redirects these attacks back at the source of the original attack or effect.
Only the bearer of the blade can evade this magic absorption ability and they are also granted a limited control over how the magic is redistributed. No spell effect known to man, god or Prince of Chaos can evade this effect and there is no known upper limit to the absorption rate.
Anyone stabbed by the blade is weakened and held in a state of near paralysis until the blade is removed. The blade has the base offensive stats of a typical two-handed sword and has no additional offensive benefits
“Whoa,” Simon muttered in Steve’s mucous laden drawl and then hacked to clear his throat. “No wonder this thing smelled so good. Had this been Lex’s plan all along?”
Simon whistled, impressed, but then grunted. There was no way Lex had known the blade was in this room, and he’d made no mention of Steve being dead. Lex had gambled with Simon’s unlife because Simon did not matter. He was just a dead guy ready to be sacrificed.
He began to sink into the tedious, all too stereotypical teenage angst but stopped short. Ever since he was a small boy, he’d been the victim. First of his own family, who’d sold him for a sack of potatoes because he was the seventh son with terrifying, uncontrollable abilities. Then Morrigan and Ouzeriuo had tortured and murdered him to gain those powers. Finally, he’d had no choice but to bond with the Barrow, a sentient dungeon that fed on the life essence of living beings.
Simon had every right to be angry, but he refused to be a victim any longer. He would no longer allow the tides of fate to take him where they would. He would fight for himself, for his friends and if he died doing so, he’d do so standing tall, sword held high, a hero for the ages.
With adrenaline powering him, Simon lifted the Oblivion Blade from its resting spot, raised it over his head and roared a ragged battle cry.
That moment of heroic furor lasted all of two seconds before the weight of the sword pulled him off his feet. He fell backward, and the sword clattered to the floor. He rolled onto his back like an upended turtle, before getting back to his feet, grumbling swears in Bläärtinese. The fantasy of running onto the bridge, sword glinting its terrible light as he plunged it into Baelmaera’s heart, faded, replaced by a single word.
“Crap!”
Simon closed the chest and sat atop it, letting his disappointment fade. He would learn from Gryph and make the best of a crappy situation. He didn’t need to be the big strapping hero to help his friends, he only needed to give them a fighting chance. Simon hopped down, grabbed the hilt and dragged it towards the far wall. Only then did he realize the first flaw in his plan.
“Where the hell is the door?”
No matter how hard he searched or smelled, he found no way out of the room. The grate in the ceiling was far out of reach. No wonder the fall had killed Steve. He scratched at his left buttcheek and concluded the bläärt had been a dolt.
He kicked Seraphine’s bag in frustration. The motion caused the wondrous loot odor to flow upwards and Simon smiled. Something in the bag would help, he knew it. He got on all fours and stuck his head into the bag, breathing in a treasure trove of scents. The bag contained a variety of potions, a scroll and the eyestalks of the chaos death eyeball version of Rubik. To the untrained nose, they all reeked of rot, but to Simon, they were a wondrous mélange of possibilities.
Simon pulled the first eyestalk free, holding it at arm’s length in one hand. It was about eight inches long with a wide-open eyeball encased in a sheath at the top. Smellify told him that this stalk fired a Telekinetic Ray and Simon suspected it was the same one that had tossed Vonn overboard during the battle.
“This might work,” he mused, turning the stalk in his hand. The motion caused the top half of the stalk to fold like a bendy straw and the eyeball stared right at him. A glow rose deep within the dead eye and before Simon could react, a shimmer of distortion rushed down the stalk and up his arm, seizing the joints at his wrist and elbow. A beam of near-invisible light exploded from the eye and hit Simon in the face, blasting his mouth open like a man trying to clean his teeth with a leaf blower.
Simon flew back into the wall with incredible force. The impact knocked the wind from him. He tried to release the eyestalk, but the telekinetic force clenched his fists tight. The bendy top of the eyestalk flopped towards the ground, drawn by gravity. The beam hit the floor, lifting Simon up and slamming him into the ceiling. The impact pushed a burp of built-up gas past the rotting bläärt’s lips.
The eyestalk twisted, spinning Simon like a top before it bent again and drove him into the floor. It pushed him down with such violence that he began to vibrate, sputters of pain humming from him like a malfunctioning garbage disposal.
Then, blessedly, the beam stopped. Simon’s arms trembled, still in the throes of whatever petrification they’d befallen. The rigid arms held the stalk above his head, which gave him a perfect view of it as it melted into a blob of goo and flopped down over his face.
“Eww,” Simon muttered and turned his head, spitting a gobbet of ichor onto the floor.
A few moments later, sensation returned to his arms and the discomfort in the rest of his body eased. He sat up, leaning his back against the chest and dug into Seraphine’s bag, careful not to activate another stalk and smellified them one by one.
“Fire Ray, no. Mutation Ray, cool, but not helpful. Sleep Ray, yeah, no.” A wide grin crossed his face on reading the next prompt.
You have found a Disintegration Ray Eyestalk.
Behold, this eyestalk will fire a Disintegration Beam.
Uses: 1
Simon stashed the other stalks back in the bag and stood in a wide stance. He raised the stalk and with caution, aimed the bent top section so that the eye faced the far wall. He gulped, took aim and fired. A beam of silver light lanced from the eye and hit the wall where a small disturbance bubbled to the surface of the pristine crystal and then expanded. A moment later, a ten-by-ten-foot section of the wall dissolved in a cloud of energetic particles.
Simon jumped for joy, despite the glop of goo from the dissolving eyestalk flowing over his hands. He wiped them on Seraphine’s bag and threw it over his shoulder. It hung far too low on him and threatened to trip him up with every step, so he tied several knots in the strap until it was manageable.
He grabbed the hilt of the Oblivion Blade and dragged it from the room, the tip sparking from contact with the floor. He exited into a long tunnel and smelled his friends’ distant loot. He scowled on realizing how long a journey lay ahead of him.
Simon rolled his shoulders like an athlete preparing for the big game. He muttered under his breath, estimating it would take him several hours to reach the bridge. Despite the likelihood that all his friends would be dead and the Prince’s invasion successful long before then, Simon had to try.
He raised his chin high, gripped the hilt tight and lumbered down the hallway, the high-pitched screech of the sword’s tip dragging across the floor his anthem to victory.
41
Vonn’s eyes pleaded with Lex, not for his life, but to let him go, to let them all go. Lex knew his friend was right. In the calculus of the universe, the death of
four people to save billions was no price at all. Then why couldn’t he pay that price?
Baelmaera chose that moment to return, showing such perfect timing that Lex wondered if the Lady of Plots and Shadows had read his mind. She walked behind Errat, the mechanical body of the archon showing an unnerving fluidity of motion, hinting that she hated pretending to be what she was not.
Her ego is her weakness, Lex thought, a small spike of hope flowing through him. That hope was dashed on realizing he had no idea how to attack it. She, however, knew exactly how to attack him.
“Have you reconsidered?” Baelmaera held the Chaos Spore in her left hand. “Accept your fate Lex, and you can save your friends.”
“You do what ya gotta do,” Lex said, pushing false bravado into his tone. “None of us will help you.”
A wave of warmth flowed over him and he felt a moment of pure solidarity. He looked to the others to find it was no illusion. Errat’s blackened eye was gentle, accepting. Vonn’s were calm and strong. Seraphine's gaze was almost playful and Lex read the subtext in her gaze. Fuck her, the assassin’s eyes said. Odymm Tal’s head still slumped onto his chest, the ball of seething orange energy consuming him from the inside. He would be no help.
Baelmaera walked to Vonn and caressed the back of his neck. The rogue flinched at her touch, but his eyes remained firm. “Let’s see if you care for this one.”
She placed her hands on each side of his head and chaotic energy built around them. Lex forced back tears. Vonn just stared back at him, showing no more concern than he had the first time Lex had seen him, his face hidden in the shadows of a hood, eyes illuminated by the glow of his pipe.
“Do as you will,” Lex heard himself say, a part of him shocked he’d said it.
The sparks of energy that doubled as the archon’s eyes flared with such anger that orange flames licked the edges of their sockets. The red-orange glow around her hands grew in intensity and surrounded Vonn’s head. Lex lurched forward, struggling against his bonds. Baelmaera grinned, and in that moment, Lex cursed himself, knowing he’d exposed his weak spot.
"We have a winner," Baelmaera said, when the low, constant hum of the Order Lance deepened. She turned to the viewscreen as the ship dropped back into normal chaotic space. The underside of Harlan’s Watch floated before them, backlit by some distant proto star.
They had arrived. But were they too late?
Baelmaera moved to the control panel and with a few taps at the controls, pulled the ship into the cover of a thick cloud. Slowly, the disc of Harlan’s Watch spun to reveal the town side. As it did, the vile entropy of raw chaos scalded into Lex’s brain. He wanted to scream, to close his eyes, to run, but even if his hands were not bound by bands of solidified chaos mana, he would have been unable to move.
For, floating in the space over Harlan’s Watch were the Princes of Chaos. Grotesque and horrible in their full physical form. Somehow, Tal’s estimation had been wrong. The Princes were no longer diminished. They were fully reborn. Each Prince was well over a hundred feet from end to end, but Lex's mind refused to process the horrors he was seeing.
Mixengettorax, the Lord of Blood and Rage was closest. His raw, rent flesh resembled a monstrous dragon if that dragon’s insides had been splayed out. Claws, wings, and teeth filled maws seethed across the blood-soaked mass.
To his right, Zeenchaara, the Lord of Decay roiled like a steaming pile of rotten flesh and garbage. Pustules burst across his surface extruding crab-like appendages bearing fierce pincers or claws. Thin black effluence dripped from the Prince’s skin like tepid water dripping in a sewer.
Vincenyth, the Pestilent was next. Her form was impossible to make out through the endless swarm of flies, beetles and other insects. The only time Lex caught glimpses beyond the cloud was when geysers of purulent secretions exploded through the throng of buzzing vermin, exposing a blister covered mass of infected flesh.
Finally came the Lord of Madness. Lex had already met an avatar of NymerTerroch and wished that had been the full measure of his exposure to the insane Prince. A thousand heads burst upwards from a tangle of torsos and limbs so intricately woven that a hundred weavers spending a hundred years would have no hopes of unraveling them. Each head argued with every other head, and even with itself, and though the words held no meaning for Lex, his mind began to unravel under their influence.
All four Princes had returned to their full and terrible glory. If they reached Earth, the planet, perhaps the very universe it occupied, would become a wasteland of death.
A heavy weight filled the air, and it became hard to breathe. It took Lex a few heartbeats to realize the pressure was a slurry of powerful emotions pouring from Baelmaera. The Lady of Plots and Shadows was both angry and ecstatic.
Lex began to laugh, whether, from the madness brought on by the Princes or his own deeply illogical sense of humor, he did not know. “Even on the cusp of victory, you want to destroy them.”
“Of course, I do,” Baelmaera hissed. “But unlike you, I am not weak. I will not become a victim of my emotions. Can you say the same?”
Baelmaera smirked at Lex, an odd and disturbing feature on the archon’s malleable face. She walked to Errat and took his head in her hands. Her touch was gentle, sensuous, that of a lover, not a murderer. A dim orange light illuminated the skin of her palms and then slow-moving arcs of energy pulsed from them and eased into Errat’s head. The warborn’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and he began to shake like a man suffering the throes of an epileptic fit.
“Let me tell you what is about to happen,” Baelmaera said. “The mortal mind is nothing more than a weak collection of impulses and instincts. At your heart you are desperate, frightened animals. The billions of cells in your pathetic brains exist for one purpose, to avoid pain and fear, at any cost.”
Errat’s neck muscles seized and his mouth opened in a silent scream. Tears poured from his eyes and a dribble of drool sputtered at the corner of his mouth.
"It takes so little to hijack those instincts." She slipped her hands about Errat’s head and several more arcs of liquid orange lightning plunged into his temples. “It is comically easy to manipulate you, to turn you against yourself."
Baelmaera closed her hands and the arcs of energy ceased. Errat’s head fell forward and Lex feared he was lost. Inside, he screamed in fury and despair, but then a low moan pushed past Errat’s lips and he lifted his head. His good eye swam with chaotic light and he stared right at Lex.
Baelmaera leaned close and whispered something in the warborn’s ear. It was far too low for Lex to hear, but Errat’s lip twitched at her words. She stood straight and snapped her fingers. The bands of chaos restraining the warborn faded to nothing and Errat stood.
For a moment he stared at Lex, eyes begging, but then turned and walked up to Vonn with no more care than a man pouring his morning coffee. The rogue’s eyes stared back, with both understanding and forgiveness. Errat reached down and took Vonn’s neck in his massive hands. Then he began to squeeze. Vonn struggled to move and speak, but his bonds held fast.
“Leave them be you bitch,” Lex roared, but there was little fire behind it. Vonn began to twitch and Baelmaera smiled. As the light began to fade from Vonn’s eyes, what little fight remaining in Lex leaked from him like water through a sieve.
A moment later, Errat eased his grip and Vonn’s nostrils flared as he pulled oxygen into his lungs. His eyes, pooled red from burst capillaries, stared at Lex begging him to be strong. Errat allowed the rogue three good breaths before he squeezed again.
“You can stop this,” Baelmaera said. “Here and now.” She held the Chaos Spore. “Just say the word.”
42
Lex said nothing as he screamed inside. He focused on his feelings for his friends and turned his rage to strength, to purpose. Lex’s fear and insecurity faded, replaced by acceptance, by certainty. He was no longer Cerrunos, and he would not allow fear, anger or even love to turn him to cowardice.
; “I will never help you remove Gryph’s Godhead,” Lex said. “And when he finds you, he will use its full power to kick your ass.”
Baelmaera’s eyes flared, and she rushed towards him. Moving in a flash of crystalline fury, she grabbed him by the throat and held the Chaos Spore before him, the seething maelstrom of hate pulsed with hunger.
“Ultimately I do not need you or your knowledge. It would have been simpler, easier, but if you won’t help me, I’ll just possess Gryph instead.”
She grabbed the underside of his chin and squeezed. Lex clamped his jaw shut, trying to resist, but her strength was too great, and she forced his mouth open. She lifted the roiling ball of chaos and pushed it to his lips.
The malevolence inside the spore squealed in delight and began to flow into Lex’s mouth. A taste of pure hatred slathered in fear filled his mouth, burning like a ghost pepper. A hacking cough pushed its way past his lips and bile rushed up the back of his throat, its acid burn presenting a poor challenge to the seeping chaos.
The rancid stench, like old gym socks stuffed with onions, filled Lex’s nose. It wafted over him like an ocean breeze at low tide. It was familiar and though foul it did not emanate from the Chaos Spore. It took only a moment for Lex to recognize the source, for scent was more attached to memory than any other sense. Despite its horridness, this scent brought Lex hope.
A roar filled the room and a choking laugh of recognition pushed past Lex’s lips.
Baelmaera turned, the motion pulling the Chaos Spore from Lex’s mouth. Her eyes widened in shock and she released him, disappearing from view. Lex turned his head to the side and spat. Dribbles of chaos laden spittle splattered to the floor and dribbled down his chin. Another roar filled the room. It was somehow familiar, but louder and more baritone than his memory.
