by C. M. Carney
“We need to get to Brynn,” Gryph said. “Before Aluran does.” Gryph turned to Herne. “How do we get out of here?”
“Simple. Will yourself to leave and you will return to the place you entered this realm.”
Gryph nodded and gripped the elderly hermit by his shoulder. “Come with us.”
“I cannot. I must finish my penance. There is still one brother here who needs my aid. I will go to him, and together we may find our forgiveness.” Gryph nodded and walked to the center of his group of friends.
Lex rushed to Herne and gave him an awkward hug. “Yeah, so, I guess you’re kinda my brother clone or something. Wish we had time to get to know each other, but I gotta …”
“Go. You are always welcome to return, if you wish to learn more about us.”
“Yeah, that sounds cool,” Lex said, gave Herne a thumbs up and rushed back to the circle of his friends.
“Good luck,” Gryph said and then Lex closed his eyes and the Archive faded away. A moment later they stood on the hexagonal platform in the Hub. Reality snapped into place and Grimliir stood before him.
The Steward’s eyes widened in hope and his mouth opened to ask about the success of their mission, when he saw his lord’s forlorn expression. His face went grim, and he turned to the nearest warborn. “Run as fast as ye are able. Tell Regent Barrendiel tae assemble the rangers and double the patrols. As of this moment we are officially at war.”
Gryph nodded his thanks and walked off the platform. Grimliir walked beside Gryph awaiting his lord’s instructions. “We need to resupply and then we’re off to Avernia to retrieve Brynn. Aluran knows who she is, he knows who I am, and he knows where we are. While I’m gone, you will double down on all efforts related to the war effort and cease work on any non-essential projects. Call Simon and tell him to prepare for our arrival.”
“Aye yer Lordship,” Grimliir said, doing his best to keep up with Gryph’s frantic pace. “What else can I do?”
Gryph slowed and turned to his Steward. “You are in charge when I am…” A sharp pain shot through Gryph, tearing like lightning from the base of his spine up into his skull. His vision twisted like he was viewing reality through the static of an off the air television channel. He stumbled and fell to one knee.
“Gryph!?” Lex yelled and caught him by the arm before Gryph could fall to his face. “What is it?”
“I…,” Gryph began when another assault of pain stabbed him behind the eyes and brought a violent red prompt into his vision.
WARNING: FORCED LOGOUT INITIATED!
Reality grew faint and through the pain in Gryph’s head he could hear Lex yelling his name. Gryph opened his mouth to respond, but only the barest tweak of a voice came out.
“No, no, no, don’t pull me out.”
Epilogue
In the frozen wastes at the top of the world a burst of light flared from nothing. It expanded, then folded in upon itself, before exploding outward, sending a fierce gust of wind that disturbed the endless drifts of snow. The gash in space and time spat out a golden armored figure and then blinked out of existence.
The man lay face down, eyes closed and breathing uneven. Steam rose from the man’s nostrils and from the blood gushing from the stump of his wrist. The snow drank the blood like a parched desert and the stain expanded into the endless field of white.
The wind picked up, bringing with it a storm. Flakes fell slowly and a layer of snow began to cover the man’s body. Soon, there would be no sign of him in the silent vastness. The man coughed and his eyes snapped open. Pain wracked his body, not only the phantom pain of his missing hand, but the deep soul-wrenching agony of one who’d nearly had a Godhead torn from him.
How had he ended up here? He'd programmed the Port Stone to take him to his private fortress in Avernia, but this was a frozen wasteland far from the comforts of his city. He had lost his hand before the Port Stone had completed powering up. Somehow that had interfered with its operation and sent him here. Wherever here was.
The man stood, gritted in pain and cast a spell of healing. The bleeding slowed and then stopped. A new layer of pink skin grew over the wrist leaving a tender stump. Replacing the limb was well beyond his Life Magic skill. One more thing to add to the list of things Gryph, and his people, would pay for.
“This changes nothing Finn Caldwell. I am coming for you and I will consume your soul,” the High God Aluran, Arche of the Pantheon, Prime Mover of the Realms, Father to All, roared at the sky. The endless nothingness atop the world swallowed the sound, burying it beneath an endless layer of white.
Aluran gritted his teeth, turned south and began to walk.
*****
The blinding light faded and Gryph tried to blink the spots from his eyes. He felt dizzy and odd, as if he were smaller. Where am I? He tried to remember, but the details were foggy like he’d just woken from a long, odd dream. I was just talking with Lex. He realized he was laying down in a box, its top open. His body was well supported, but he felt stiff and weak. And wasn’t I just standing? He reached a trembling hand up, grasped the side of the box and pulled himself into a seated position. He blinked his eyes clear and tried to ignore the skull splitting headache.
The room was small, square and dark, and somehow familiar. An odd mechanical buzz hummed right beyond the edge of hearing. It took a few more blinks for his eyes to clear enough to realize his night vision had failed. As an elf, he could see in dim light, but despite that he could discern very little of his surroundings. It's almost like he was … human.
A cold dread seeped into him as he recognized the room. It hadn’t changed much. The small bed still lined one wall, next to it a small refrigerator hummed. Gryph turned knowing he would find an old couch and a holo-vis. Sitting on that couch was a man shrouded in shadows. He pointed a pistol at another thinner, older man. The older man was gagged, and his eyes bore a look of regret.
“Doc?” Gryph asked and realization hit him. He looked to the side, at the reflective glass lid of the neural integration rig and saw the sallow, bearded face of Finn Caldwell staring back at him. They've pulled me from the Realms. He had no time to process the shock, as the man with the gun leaned forward and into the light.
“Hello Finn.”
The End of The Forsaken God.
Book Five of the Realms.
The Realms will Continue with Chaos Rising.
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Of Chaos Rising – The Realms Book Six.
Chaos
Rising
Book Six of The Realms
by
C.M. Carney
5,268 Years Before the Events of Barrow King
The frigid air swept over Odymm Tal as he dashed towards the Citadel. The chill eating at his bones had little to do with the gusts blowing across Xygarrion, for today, he feared his city would fall. And if Xygarrion fell, all the Realms would follow.
Tal pushed his way through the early morning crowds, not pausing to apologize when he bumped a shopkeeper or cut off a school matron leading her flock of children. If he failed to stop what was about to happen, momentary lapses in propriety would matter less than a falling leaf in autumn.
“This is my fault,” he said, not realizing he’d spoken aloud.
“You warned them,” came the resonant bass of his archon, Jurredix, who kept Tal’s pace with ease. “On multiple occasions. They did not listen.”
Tal cast an appreciative glance at the mechanical man, his gift from the Primarchs, the Lords of Order, upon achieving the rank of Grandmaster. The archon was a symbol of Tal’s high status, and it comforted him to have him by his side as the entropy of human folly threatened to destroy everything Tal had worked his entire life to protect.
“And there was no way of knowing they had progressed so far, so quickly. We all thought we had more time.”
“Time, the greatest weapon of entropy.” Tal clenched his fists into balls, his knu
ckles going white. “I should have forced them to heed my warnings. I should have tugged them by their beards and their braids and smacked some sense into them.”
“You were obeying the law.”
“And look where that’s got us. We hover on the brink of annihilation. I should have seized control, the law be damned.”
“A coup? How very chaotic of you,” the archon said, earning a sardonic chuckle from his master. Silence hung for several seconds before the machine spoke again. “At least you secured Merria and Berrek’s safety. I am very fond of them,” the archon said, his flat voice showing no emotion.
“If we do not stop the Synod from opening their foolish Realm Gate, then no place will be safe.”
“I am aware. I was attempting to ease your mind.”
“You knowingly spoke an untruth?” Tal said voice tinged with shock.
“So, I did.” The archon tilted his head to the side, a mannerism it had gained observing Tal over the last decade. “Troubling. Perhaps I have spent too much time in the company of humans. Your chaotic nature is unbounded, corrosive.”
“If we live through the day, I’ll let you complain about it to your heart’s desire.”
“I do not complain, nor do I have a heart. I am powered by a spark of pure order.”
Tal ignored his taciturn companion’s comment and pushed his way into the Citadel. Several guards snapped to attention, but he paid them no heed. He sent the barest of glances towards the massive council chamber where his last efforts to warn the Synod had failed. Then, without slowing, he turned left and descended a staircase into the bowels of the Citadel.
“It makes no sense. The Synod has grown arrogant, but they are not fools. How could they ignore the evidence I presented them? It was irrefutable.”
“I have thought long on that, and logic points to only one conclusion.”
Tal’s eyes snapped up to the shimmering pinpoints of blue-white light that were the archon’s eyes. “You don’t think …”
“One of the Synod is corrupted.”
“You cannot believe that?”
“I can, and I do, as will you. Cleanse your perception of sentiment, and you will see it is the only logical conclusion. The Alliance is on the brink of defeat. There are rumors the Thalmiir will seal Dar Thoriim to the world. Every captured El’Edryn returns a corrupted enemy, fallen from the light. Like you, the Synod is desperate. They want nothing more than the power to protect those they love. Who has long offered that power to the mortal realms?”
Fear and uncertainty tore away the last remnants of Tal’s disbelief. “The Princes of Chaos? But trusting them is utter madness.”
“Desperation breeds madness.”
“By the Source, you are right. How did I not see it?”
“I believe a part of you did, but you refused to let yourself believe. You mortals are masters of self-deception. It is a wonder you have survived this long.”
Tal grimaced, a part of him wanting to smack the archon, but he knew it would damage his hand far more than the crys-metal of the automaton’s face. “We must stop them,” Tal said.
“Yes, is that not why we are descending these stairs at an alarming and unsafe speed?”
“Do you ever tire of being right?”
“I never get tired at all.”
The archon and the Grandmaster descended in silence, the echo of their footsteps their only companion. Eventually, the silence became too much for Tal.
“A port circle would come in really handy about now. How did the bastards convince us to shut them all down?”
“When fear and lies erode the rule of law, freedom loses to security,” Jurredix said. “It is the surest sign that a society is in decline.”
“Are you saying we deserve this? We asked for this?”
“No, I am saying we should have imprisoned them all when we had the chance.”
“Now you tell me.”
They reached the bottom of the stairs to see a dozen armored figures standing sentinel before a pair of rune scrawled stone doors. One, a woman Tal knew well, stepped forward and pointed her long sword at him. “Grandmaster Odymm Tal, Arch Deacon of the Circle, you are not welcome here. Turn back now, or we will bring the verdict of the Synod down upon you.”
“Dyrria, please.” He stared at the woman, a harsher version of his wife’s features staring back at him.
For the briefest of moments, her expression turned warm before her rigid discipline took control of her once again. “Leave now, or I will have to arrest you.”
“If we do not stop the Synod, we will lose everything to the Maelstrom. Please help me.”
“We need the Realm Gate Tal. Without it, the Prime will be victorious.”
“The Synod is corrupted. They are under the sway of the Princes of Chaos.”
Dyrria’s eyes went wide in disbelief. “You have evidence of this?”
“I will, once you open that door.”
Dyrria sighed and shook her head. “Please, for the sake of my sister and my nephew, turn and go home. You have not been yourself for some time, Tal. Your theories were disproved. Your career is in shambles. You are desperate, twisted by obsession. Let me help you.”
For the briefest of moments, Tal felt her words eat at his confidence. All she said was true. Am I wrong? Am I delusional? His doubt lasted for mere moments before Jurredix spoke.
“Why does the Synod work in the shadows Dyrria Fet? Why do they need guards? Those who operate in secret have secrets to hide.”
Dyrria considered, but she had always been inflexible, beholden to her sense of right and wrong even when facts proved inconvenient. “The Synod does not wish to cause a panic archon. You of all beings know how dangerous a mob of terrified people can be.”
“If they finish their ritual, there will be no more people.” Tal almost convinced her, but then her shoulders tightened, and he knew he would have to fight. Before she could order an attack, Tal activated his Ring of Spell Storage and cast Sovereign Command.
The spell had a one-minute casting time, but knowing he’d have nowhere near that amount of time, Tal had precast it into his ring. Dyrria proved his foresight accurate when she launched herself at him, moving swifter than should have been possible.
Sovereign Command activated instantly. The pure white light of Order Magic built inside Tal, filling his eyes and flowing down his arms and into his hands. He brought his palms together with a thunderous clap, and a sphere of rune scrawled white light exploded forth.
It pulsed over Dyrria and her guards just as the tip of her sword pierced Tal’s shoulder. He grunted in pain but willed himself to remain focused or risk spell feedback. He’d survive the onslaught of 1,000 mana points of rebounded damage, but all hopes of stopping the Synod would die if his focus slipped.
Order Magic differed from the other spheres. Where the elemental magics harnessed the power of nature, Order Magic allowed the user to see the underlying principles of magic itself. Once understood, these rules of magic granted order mages incredible defensive and offensive capabilities. But the sphere’s true power lay in its ability to understand the principles that underlay consciousness itself. Given time, a Grandmaster could hijack the free will of individuals and command armies.
Where thought mages could read minds, delete knowledge and install memories, order mages could control how the mind functioned. This made high-level Order Magic dangerous and the Circle fiercely policed its use.
The field of magical energy flowed over the guards, expanding and contracting into intricate rune filled halos. Each one spun and slammed into the foreheads of the guards like a searing brand. Tal felt the spell go active and yelled: “Stop!” The guards froze as if time had stopped.
Tal ordered Dyrria to pull her sword free, and pain tore at his shoulder. Jurredix caught him before he could fall and placed his right hand above the wound. White light resembling tendrils of liquid metal pulsed from the archon’s palm. The strands of pure order energy sunk into Tal’s wound
and restructured the damaged cells. In moments Tal’s shoulder healed.
Tal turned to the passive eyed Dyrria. “Open the door.”
“I cannot. The Synod locked it from the inside.”
“And that wasn’t a hint they were hiding something?” Tal said, rage seething inside him. He pushed her aside and ordered the guards to part. He inspected the patterns on the doors. Swirling runes of magma orange flared to life on their surface, then changed, faded, and disappeared. A migraine-like pressure built up behind Tal’s eyes, and he forced himself to look away.
“Jurredix,” Tal said, rubbing his thumbs into his temples.
The archon stepped forward, his mechanical eyes analyzing and recording the shifting patterns. “These are chaos runes, in the dialect of Zeenchaara.”
“Odd, the Lord of Decay is rarely so forward.”
“Wait,” the archon said, his voice raised in mild surprise. “They are changing.”
“Is that not the nature of chaos?”
“Yes, but now the runes are in the dialect of Vincenyth, the Pestilent. Another change, this time NymerTerroch, the Prince of Madness. And again, this dialect belongs to Mixengettorax, The Lord of Carnage.”
Panic rose in Tal like bile, and he risked a glance at the shifting patterns. They were now changing at incredible speed, a slurry of lines and arcs, indecipherable to Tal’s mortal eyes. His migraine pulsed, and he turned away. “The Princes of Chaos are working in concert?” The very idea was terrifying. The Princes hated each other as much as they did the Primarchs. “If they are working together, then….“
“Things are even worse than we had surmised,” Jurredix said, his eyes scanning back and forth at an incredible rate. “There is something else.” Tal waited for the archon to finish his analysis. “I have evaluated over 10,000 shifts in the last minute alone and none of them make any mention of Baelmaera.”
Tal’s eyes widened, and he brought a reflexive hand to the amulet at his throat, letting the totem of his Order bring him ease. The Lady of Shadows and Plots was the arch-nemesis of the Circle. Her manipulations had long posed the greatest threat to the mortal realms. “Why would she go silent?”
