by C. M. Carney
A freakishly tall man wearing a beaked metallic mask stepped through the cloud of smoke. He waved his long arms around at the corpses littering the ground. “You may have deceived these pompous fools, but I see what their hubris would not allow them to see; you are a Seeker.”
Zeckoth, Eris confirmed, a fresh wave of panic threatening to drown her as the tall man walked into view. Zeckoth was the Pantheon’s god of knowledge and one of the few being in the Realms, or on Earth, that Aluran trusted. His presence here, now, could only mean one thing.
Aluran seeks the Forsaken God!
Eris’ hands shook at the sight of her ancient nemesis. Zeckoth, like every other member of the Pantheon, like Eris herself, was from Earth. There he’d been James Sloane, Alistair Bechard’s head of security and spymaster. He and Eris had … history.
You spent years rebuilding yourself. Do not let him tear you down again, a gravelly voice said in her mind, the voice of her mentor.
But I had you, she responded.
You did not need me then. You do not need me now.
Eris closed her eyes and let her dread flow over and through her. She could not fight against the tide of fear, but she could rise above it and ride its crest. She eased calm through her, releasing the tension in her neck. She sent the warmth down her arms regaining control inch by inch. Her hands ceased shaking, and she flexed her finger over the trigger guard of her rifle. Then, with a small, wry smile she eased her eyes open.
Calm rationality replaced her fear and she let herself see. The number and distribution of the bodies told her that Zeckoth was not alone. While he enjoyed violence, he rarely sullied his own hands.
She shifted the drone’s telemetry into the ultraviolet revealing the energetic forms of another three shadow thralls pulsing in the gloom. You always liked your lackeys James, Eris thought. They will not help you now.
The telemetry told her something else. They do not know that I’m here, that I’m coming. Otherwise one of the other thralls would have Occluded her drone.
She pulled her focus from the drone’s telemetry. Before her, a long, thin tunnel stretched into the mountain, opening into the courtyard. She dipped into Stealth and eased her way down the tunnel, keeping one eye and one ear on the feed from the drone.
Zeckoth lifted the terrified Loremaster by his throat and brought him close. The rail thin god drew the index finger of his right hand down the elderly sage’s face, a claw of silver metal deftly flaying the man’s thin skin.
“Please,” the gardener begged, flinching away from the pain.
“I want you to know, despite our current opposition, this is not personal,” Zeckoth said to the terrified man. They were the same words the bastard had said to her the day he took everything from her. “I take no pleasure in this.”
Eris and the Seeker both knew Zeckoth was lying, for each had known psychopaths, and the God of Knowledge was most certainly afflicted with that malady. “Face your fate with dignity and save yourself some pain. You will tell me what I need to know, one way or another.”
Zeckoth drew the clawed finger in front of the gardener’s eyes. A thick drop of liquid hung from the tip. “This is a concoction of my own design. Where I come from we called it truth serum. Here I call it power.” Zeckoth stared into the man’s eyes for several moments before shrugging. “Fine, I will have some fun.”
Zeckoth turned and walked towards the center of the chamber where a yawning hole led deeper into the bowels of the mountain. Extending from the edge was a long causeway of stone used by the Loremasters to focus their meditative techniques with fear. It reminded Eris of a plank from the ancient pirate movies her father enjoyed.
Without a hint of apprehension, Zeckoth strode onto the precarious outcropping and extended his arm, dangling the gardener over the abyss. “Fear heightens the effectiveness of the serum. You will tell me. It is inevitable.”
Eris watched the gardener’s will break and knew Zeckoth was right. He is the Seeker. The desperate man opened and closed his mouth, struggling to resist. All present knew he would fail. I have to stop this.
Without taking her eyes from the scene, Eris reached up and pulled a single round from her bandolier. The crimson colored round was cast from bleed metal, a rare variety of red elementum that had moved through a bleed zone, an area of space where the normal rules of magic went haywire, preventing mana from functioning properly.
She cleared the chamber of her rifle and slipped the bleed metal round inside, caressing it as if her attention would grant it power. She knelt and raised the rifle. Her scope showed her target 311 feet away. A mild headwind forced her to adjust her aim. She inhaled, exhaled and paused.
She activated her Sure Shot perk and pulled the trigger. The gun hummed with a distinctive metallic zing as the round erupted from the muzzle. Faster than her eyes could follow the round punched into Zeckoth’s shoulder.
The Seeker fell, scrambling to grab the edge of the causeway. Zeckoth’s expression turned to shocked incomprehension as he turned and locked eyes with Eris’ before toppling over the edge.
Zeckoth’s confusion would not last long, so Eris sent the drone plunging after him. The god recovered quickly, and the hand of his good arm twined in an intricate pattern, likely trying to cast the same flight spell he’d used to enter the Foundation.
Eris saw the flare of mana build around Zeckoth’s fingers and fear gripped her heart. A moment later the mana flared out and Zeckoth’s face became a mask of pain. The Magekiller Round had done its work well, the anti-magic properties of the bleed metal preventing Zeckoth from drawing on his mana.
Let’s hope he has no other way to fly.
The look of panic on Zeckoth’s face told Eris that the god did not. The drone descended with him ensuring that Eris would see every desperate moment. He fumbled with a pouch at his side and withdrew a potion of seething amber liquid. With desperate concentration the falling god uncorked the bottle.
Eris didn't know what the vial contained, but if Zeckoth was focusing his attention on drinking it, she would stop him. She ordered the drone to increase its speed and the small sphere folded its wings and punched into the glass bottle. Liquid and glass exploded outward and Zeckoth howled in fury that had nothing to do with the shards of glass embedded in his face.
Eris didn’t even try to stop the wicked grin from crossing her face. A moment later Zeckoth hit the bottom with a sickening thwack, blood expanding in a wide Rorschach spray. Her drone confirmed that while Zeckoth was unconscious, he still lived. Despite the horrific fall, no member of the Pantheon could be killed so easily.
Eris felt a tension she hadn’t known she’d carried release. The burden of her secret pain and humiliation lessened ever so slightly by the god’s suffering. She knew it would not last, but for now she felt free. She ordered the drone to fly back up, searching for any sign of the Seeker. A moment later the elderly man came into view, his fingers somehow sunk into solid stone. He lives, she thought in joy.
The unearthly howls of the shadow thralls cut her celebration short as all three cursed creatures rushed her, mad for revenge. She dropped her rifle and drew a pair of heavy revolvers. Like the rifle, the pistols were magnetic powered weapons. Like the rifle they were deadly in her hands.
She unleashed volley after volley of enchanted projectiles, jumping and spinning like a dancer in a theater of death. The rounds tore into the shadows, ripping the fell creatures apart. Two of the beasts went down, their final screams sounding almost joyous.
Her guns clicked empty and the last shadow was upon her, its claws raking her face and right forearm. She lacked the time to reload and dropped her pistols. With a flick of her left wrist a thin adamantine dirk appeared in her hand. She shoved upwards crunching through the humanoid shadow’s chin and into the thrall’s brain.
Her arms and face burned with necrotic damage and she fell to one knee. Realizing she had no time to worry about the Death Magic scouring her blood like acid, she stumbled to her feet and ran
to the edge of the causeway.
She dove, or perhaps fell, sliding across the smooth stone. She spun her dirk and plunged the thin blade down in the solid granite of the jutting plank. The adamantine blade sunk deep into the stone, arresting her forward motion just as she reached the edge. She tossed her arm down.
“Take my hand!” she yelled down and a moment later she felt a calloused hand grab her own. She strained and grunted as she dragged the larger man upwards. Her muscles burned from the effort and the poison leaching through her system, but soon the Seeker lay panting at her side. A moment later they both sat up and the Seeker, the man she’d known as a gardener nodded his thanks.
“Now, tell me about your master. Tell me how to find the Forsaken God.”
6
Several days after they’d left the city the Adventure Group emerged from the Port Gate, the unlocked Occulorum, and its fresh scan of the cloaking rune-form, safely stashed in Gryph’s satchel. They exited the gate onto the field at the edge of the Nimmerian ruins and felt the grass crunch under their feet. Gryph tapped out a series of runes on the gate’s control panel and the Port Icon from the other end of the connection pulled itself through.
Gryph removed the Icon and placed it in his satchel. A twinge of guilt built inside him as thoughts of Bishop filled his mind. The archon who’d taken possession of the body of the Scourge had sacrificed himself to destroy the Icon powering the gate underneath the Crag, the prison that held Brynn. He’d done so while impersonating Gryph, and his actions saved the Adventure Group from Aluran’s wrath.
Nobody had heard from Bishop since.
It was only later, upon reading the Nimmerian Knowledge Cache, that Gryph learned how to retrieve the valuable Port Icons, ensuring not only their security, but the continued availability of the long-distance transportation network. Bishop’s sacrifice was unnecessary. It was just another burden Gryph would carry the rest of his days.
He put it out of his mind and greeted the cadre of elven rangers and warborn warriors guarding the gate. A quick report informed him it had been quiet, almost too quiet, the last several days. Something felt off about that, and Gryph added it to his ever-growing list of things to look into.
The sun was over an hour from setting, giving them plenty of time to reach the safety of the Moon Gate before night fell. The high-walled fortress guarded the approach to Sylvan Aenor and Dar Thoriim. Inside the fortress they’d find the nearest functioning Port Circle.
“Man, these stumpy legs of mine are not enjoying this walk,” Lex said, rubbing his thighs with the palms of his thick hands.
“If friend Lex is too tired, Errat would very much enjoy carrying him.” Snickers erupted from the others and Lex hastily declined the offer. Perhaps triggered by the insult, Ovrym spoke up.
“Have they made any progress on moving the gate into the city?” the xydai asked Gryph. While the group enjoyed ribbing Lex, all five men knew the long-range transportation device’s current location was inconvenient, and strategically dangerous.
“Grimliir is working on it. Moving the gate itself is possible, if difficult. Powering it is the problem. The current hang up involves Nodes, which are natural areas of heightened and concentrated mana. To function the gate must lie on a Node. Unfortunately, the surveys have yet to find any inside Dar Thoriim, or even in Sylvan Aenor. Until we find one the gate remains where it is.”
“Maybe your shiny new magic box can help,” Lex said.
“How so?” Gryph cocked his head sideways at the small Ordonian.
“You Ritual Magic folks are really enamored with focusing lotsa mana into one place and then making it permanent. Right?” Gryph agreed. “Does a Node have to be natural? If not, why don’t you just make one?”
Gryph opened his mouth to object and then closed it. It can’t be that easy, can it? He smiled at his NPC and clapped him on the back. On the surface Lex may seem a goofy purveyor of one liners and complaints, but, occasionally, an insightful comment emerged from the lexicon’s mish-mash of a psyche. “You might be onto something there.”
Upon reaching the city, Gryph ordered the others to rest. Lex protested, claiming he wasn’t tired, but a yawn interrupted his complaint. Vonn and Ovrym nodded and went their separate ways, while Errat, who did not need rest, left to work on the automaton bird he’d named Flappy.
Gryph sent word to Grimliir and Eadweanna to look into Lex’s Node idea and then, stifling a yawn, walked to the nearest Port Circle. Despite his exhaustion he was unwilling to risk further failure of Aurvendiel’s cloaking field. It was time to play with the Occulorum.
As he walked, he cycled through a slew of prompts he’d been ignoring.
You have earned a weekly XP Tithe (x4).
As the Lord of Dar Thoriim, you have earned a weekly 0.01% tithe on all experience earned by your citizens. This is a gift given by your people in thanks for providing a safe place to live, work and raise families.
Weekly Tithe (1): 25,689 XP from 2,568,934 XP earned by your people.
Weekly Tithe (2): 34,588 XP from 3,458,752 XP earned by your people.
Weekly Tithe (3): 56,246 XP from 5,624,583 XP earned by your people.
Weekly Tithe (4): 76,346 XP from 7,634,583 XP earned by your people.
First up was his XP tithe from the last several weeks. He received the XP as a tax for providing security for his people. Each week the tithe had increased. This was because more of his citizens were finding their roles and working to improve their skills, but also due to the systematic clearing of the lower levels of the city of beasts and pests.
The warborn took point on that job, citing their duty as protectors. The tireless warriors defeated a wide range of monsters in the city’s depths. Occasionally, Gryph joined them, using it as an opportunity to take his mind off the burdens of leadership while honing his martial and leadership abilities. It was the perfect training for what Gryph hoped would be the nucleus of the army Brynn insisted he build.
Thinking on Brynn sent a flush of worry through him and he thought back to a series of prompts related to his sister. Gryph had entered the Realms to save his sister. She’d been taken into the Realms against her will and her memories stolen from her. Gryph had awakened those memories and planned to return her to Earth, but Brynn refused. She was a member of the Resistance, a shadowy group of people working against the High God Aluran, and her mission was here on Korynn. He could not help but worry about the dangers she faced.
You have failed the quest Save Brynn.
You have failed to free Brynn from the Realms and return her to safety.
Now free, she'd chosen to be a mole inside Aluran’s sphere of influence. Though her bravery made him proud, Gryph cursed himself for allowing her to endanger herself in such a way. The next prompt had come as a surprise, proving once again that the Realms had an odd way of rewarding him for his actions.
You have completed the hidden quest A Spy in the Midst.
You have earned 350,000 XP for completing the quest A Spy in the Midst. You gave Brynn her memories back, but she refused to leave the Realms. Instead, she has chosen the dangerous role of a mole inside Aluran’s Pantheon. This could be the deciding factor in the war versus Aluran, or it could end with her death.
He missed Brynn terribly. Most days, despite the friends he’d made since entering the Realms, he still felt lonely, like a foreign stranger far from home. Knowing that Brynn was out there, somewhere, made that loneliness tolerable.
He wished he could see her now.
You will see her soon enough. When you do, you must be ready, the voice of the Colonel said in his head. Before succumbing to cancer, the Colonel had, from a biological perspective at least, been their father. Gryph had refused to refer to him as such after the Colonel had shot him and left him for dead. He scowled and forced the phantom voice of his dead father back into the recesses of his mind and turned his thoughts to the task Brynn had set for him.
She'd commanded him to build an army. Then, to save him fro
m capture and torture by Aluran, Brynn killed him, killed him with a weapon the High God believed to be a permanent player killer. The last thing Gryph saw, as he writhed in agony, was Brynn destroying the weapon.
The question remains. Did Aluran buy the subterfuge? Does he truly believe I am dead?
After respawning, Gryph gathered the Round Table, the ruling council of the twin cities of Dar Thoriim and Sylvan Aenor and told them of his mission. They voted unanimously to build the army. The warborn leadership pledged their people as the foundation of that fighting force. As Gryph learned the last few weeks of joining their forays, the automatons were a force to be reckoned with. And as he opened another prompt, he saw just how richly he'd been rewarded for fighting alongside them.
You have earned Experience Points.
You have earned 123,854 XP (82,569 Base + 41,285 Bonus) for defeating Monsters (x56).
For a complete list of Monsters defeated open full combat log.
He had no desire to parse through the individual kills, but gratefully accepted the 50% Experience Bonus granted by his Leadership skill perk. His mood brightened further on seeing another prompt detailing a slew of skill level increases he’d gained in the weeks since returning from his mission to rescue Brynn. He'd earned some during his search and destroy missions with the warborn, while others were because of his work in conceiving, crafting and practicing with his new throwing knives.
Skill Level Alert.
You have reached level 13 in Earth Magic.
You have reached level 15 in Thought Magic.
You have reached level 26 in Staves/Spears.
You have reached level 17 in Thrown Weapons.
You have reached level 25 in Light Armor.
