by C. M. Carney
“No, Your Eminence. None of my eyes or ears have reported seeing him. And my Divinations have also turned up nothing.”
A small frown crossed Aluran's lips. “Then it is as we suspected?”
“Yes,” the Hooded Man said. “If I may, I suggest that we retire to a more private location."
Aluran nodded and placed his hand on the Hooded Man’s shoulder. Reality bent and blurred, and they were elsewhere. The High God, now clad in robes of burnished gold and emerald, walked to a tall window and gazed down upon the Shining City. They were at the top of the tower known as The Fang that soared several hundred yards above the courtyard of the Dragon’s Nest.
“Then it is a true Prime Godhead?” Aluran queried without turning his gaze from his city.
“It is the only explanation Your Eminence. At first, I suspected that someone had altered one of the Godhead’s you constructed for the Pantheon, somehow making it immune to your influence.”
The Hooded Man paused.
“But?” Aluran said with a note of impatience.
“Even if someone removed the domination protocols, they could not erase the beacon. It is part of the base code upon which you layered the new Godhead matrices. Despite several exhaustive searches, I could not divine his location.”
“I was under the impression that the location of all the Prime Godheads had been accounted for?”
The Hooded Man cringed. That responsibility had been his, and he had been certain that the location or fate of all the Prime Godhead’s were known. Yet, somehow, he had missed one. The High God had a well-known reputation for benevolence among the peoples of Korynn, but the Hooded Man knew better. He knew ancient paranoia still raged in the soul of his master. Even the Hooded Man, the most loyal of the High God’s servants, knew he could be sacrificed on the altar of those ancient fears.
“I am sorry, Your Eminence. I have sent spies to all corners of Korynn. They will find him. And I will continue to Divine as well.” The Hooded Man lowered his head as he heard Aluran turn and walk towards him. Every second ticked by in an age and the Hooded Man wondered if this moment would once again be his last.
“Look at me,” the High God said, and the Hooded Man raised a fear-filled gaze to his master.
The High God stared at his minion with an unknowable expression. Had the Hooded Man still possessed a living heart he knew it would be near bursting. Yet, he did not and so he had no biological mechanism to track time.
“Finding this man, this heretic, is your only purpose,” the High God commanded. “You will do nothing else until he is found.”
The Hooded Man knew better than to say anything when his master was in such a mood. He watched as the High God buried his rage. It did not disappear. It never disappeared.
Aluran gazed down on the map and spread his hands wide. The map moved in to settle on a town near the Myrric Mountains a mere thousand miles from where they now stood.
“This heathen who bears the power of a god may shield himself, but his banner NPC is here. Find him. Bring him to me. Alive.”
The Hooded Man hung his head low in humility. “I will send my best agent.”
“See that you do,” the High God said, his powerful grip clasped the base of the Hooded Man’s thin neck. A mere flick of the wrist would mean another death. With no warning the High God released him and turned.
“Steward, attend me,” Aluran said in a measured voice and a thin pop of air announced his steward, the same squat man who had taken his helmet in the courtyard.
“You called, Your Eminence?”
“Bring me something to kill.”
“At once,” the steward said with a bow and disappeared and the High God turned to the Hooded Man.
“Someone gave this man a Prime Godhead.”
With a sudden shock of realization, the Hooded Man understood his master’s words. “You believe there is a traitor in our midst?”
The High God whipped his head towards the Hooded Man and a slight twinge of anger burbled to the surface before Aluran buried it. He turned back towards the window and gazed to the south.
“There are always traitors,” the High God said.
33
Wick had found the small set of rooms on their third day in the Barrow and it had been home since. An ancient cave-in blocked the entrance, but after a long day's work the group had cleared the rubble away to find a hidden door. The rooms had contained a small armory of rusted weapons and armor and a dozen beds. Hugarn thought it was a barracks, a secret guard room from the long-ago days when the Barrow had been more a fortress than a dungeon.
The six members of the party had found the small space cramped. Now that it was just Wick and Tifala, the place felt cavernous. Once again, the guilt wormed into him. They were all dead. Hugarn, Zelyanna, Thaardik, and poor sweet Jebbis missing these last three days. He had no idea what he would tell Rehla if they ever got out of this hellhole. She would blame him for his cousin’s death and she would be right.
His thoughts so troubled him that he did not hear Tifala come up behind him and jumped when she lightly touched his shoulder. She handed him a cup of steaming liquid. She saw his troubled thoughts painted on his face and smiled.
“The potion?” he asked bewildered. She had been crafting a potion from the ingredients Wick had collected after his encounter with the player called Gryph. A potion that would increase his Stamina, Constitution, and Dexterity. Why would she give him this? To test it?
“Tea,” she said with a smile that told him he could be dim, but that she found it endearing.
Wick smiled grimly and nodded a salute to his own foolishness.
“You’re thinking about them again.”
Wick nodded, embarrassed and ecstatic that she knew him so well. “Jebbis is still missing. I should be out there looking for him.”
Tifala took his face gently in her small hands and turned him towards her. The look in her eye was pure sympathy layered in love. “Jebbis is dead. We both know it.” She pulled him to her as his eyes brimmed with tears.
“What will I tell Rehla?”
“We will figure it out together,” Tifala said, holding his face in both hands and forcing him to look her in the eye. “We will get out of here together.” Wick’s mood lifted, if only slightly. He knew the truth of the words Tif spoke, at least on an intellectual level. He knew in his mind that he was not at fault. Every member of their party had chosen to adventure into the Barrow. Their deaths were not on his conscience. He knew that in his mind, it was his heart that disagreed and his heart that had always held sway over him.
She held out her pinky finger to him, her smile growing warmer and brighter in a place bereft of both light and warmth. After a few seconds he smiled and nodded. He held out the pinky finger of his right hand. She raised hers, curling it around his.
“Together forever,” he said.
“Together forever,” she replied.
The slight smell of sulfur filled the room, and Wick’s mood went from content to on edge. A moment later, a small flash and the pop of air announced the arrival of the imp Wick referred to as Xeg, since his true name, the name used to summon him from the chthonic realm was both incredibly difficult to pronounce and extremely taxing on the vocal cords.
“Things come,” The imp sputtered in a voice that sounded like lava melting ice.
“What kind of things?” Wick said, attempting to keep the anger from his voice. Xeg wasn’t the most cooperative servant. Chthonic beings loved getting away from their hellish plane of existence, but they despised having to serve mortals like Wick. Mortals who were inferior to Xeg and his kind.
"Xeg know not. Things. Walk on two legs. Wear clothing." This last bit featured a forward thrust of its crotch, only instead of genitals Xeg’s groin was blank. Wick had often wondered in moments when his mind went idle how imps reproduced. Sometimes he was not a fan of his mind.
“Are they wyrmynn or other?”
“Other. Not stinky cold vermin. Warm and
tall with pokey ears.”
“Pointy ears,” Wick corrected.
“Pffft,” was the imp’s only response.
“Elves?” Tifala asked in a curious tone.
“How far?” Wick asked as the mechanism that hid the door to their room clicked. Wick and Tifala both whipped their hands towards the door. Hers covered in warm halo of golden light. His in a roiling pulse of inky blue black.
“Now,” the imp responded, amused by his not so helpful warning. Summoned imps were required to obey the commands of their masters, but they would always look for any loophole. Wick cursed himself for speaking too vaguely when he’d laid out his commands.
“Wick,” said a voice. “You there?”
Wick exchanged a frantic glance with Tifala. Through the thick wall of rock, it was difficult to tell who the voice belonged to and for a moment, hope dug into Wick’s heart. Was Jebbis somehow still alive?
“It’s Gryph. You know the one you forgot to designate as friendly. Let’s not make the same mistake twice, okay, buddy.”
Wick’s heart sank as he calmed himself. Jebbis is dead, Tifala’s face said. He looked to her and her eyes showed sympathy, somehow knowing what he was thinking. He knew his cousin was dead. His hope was a paltry attempt to soothe his guilt. His mind raced. What was Gryph doing here and how the hell had he found them?
“What do you want?”
“I think we may be able to help each other.”
Wick glanced at Tifala in uncertainty. He had told her about his encounter with the strange player. A silent debate raged between them and, finally, with a simple nod, she agreed to open the door.
Wick moved to the door, glancing back at Tif, who raised her arm, ready to send a Life Blast into any face that was not Gryph’s. Wick unhitched the lock and eased the door open. Gryph stood there, looking awful and being supported by a dusky skinned man with yellow eyes.
“A xydai,” Wick exclaimed in horror and moved to slam the door.
“See, Things. Xeg told you they were things.”
“Wait, he is a friend.” Gryph said. “Please.”
“Tif?” Wick said without looking back. The glow on her hand morphed as she changed her casting. The glow flowed up her arm and into her eyes where the golden energy turned her pupils into stars of pure light. She kinked her head to the side and stared at both men.
“He speaks the truth,” Tifala said, and then her eyes went wide. “An Adjudicator.”
Wick spun back to look at his beloved. “A what?”
“A warrior monk that uses aether to serve order,” Tifala said, gold eyes staring.
“What the heck does that mean?” Wick asked, eyeballing Ovyrm.
“She is sure,” Ovyrm said. “I am an Adjudicator. Or more accurately, I was.”
Gryph looked between the three of them with a confused look on his face. “I’ve got no damn clue what the hell any of you are talking about, but we had to avoid several wyrmynn patrols to get here, I recently died and I feel like complete shit. So can we please come in?”
“Dead? So, you are a player?”
Gryph looked at Wick in shock and remembered the odd parting words Wick had spoken during their first encounter.
“I told you, I’d see you in your next life,” the gnome said with a mirthless grin.
“You could have warned me.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
Tifala pushed Wick aside and held out her hands. She looked at Gryph with a gentle face, and he knew she meant for him to kneel. He did, and she took his head in her hands. Warmth spread from her fingers and deep into him.
“Try to relax,” Tifala said to Gryph. The voice and manner reminded Gryph of his childhood doctor back in New Hampshire. In fact, take away the purple frock of hair and the fact that she was the size of a child, she could have been Doc Verril. He did as she bid and felt at ease in the presence of this diminutive life mage. A glow surrounded her, and then his entire body grew warm as if were being scanned by the loving eye of God. He calmed, and he felt at ease.
“Sweet Mother,” Tifala said, her hands jerking back from Gryph. “There is something inside you. Something ancient and filled with potential.”
“It’s called a Godhead,” Gryph said. “It’s why we are here.” Gryph told the two gnomes the little he knew about the divine artifact. Their eyes went wide in disbelief. Fear mingled with purpose in their eyes as he finished his tale. Ovyrm chimed in with tidbits that fleshed out the group’s understanding of the dangerous artifact.
“The Barrow King can sense the Godhead. I have been able to shield him from the revenant’s sight, but I fear it is only a matter of time before the Barrow King finds him.”
“Yet you brought Gryph here? You endanger both of us,” Wick said.
“There is no safe place in the Barrow,” Ovyrm countered. Wick’s scowled, but he said nothing further. He knew the xydai spoke the truth.
“We need to get him out of the Barrow,” Tifala said.
“And how do you plan to do that? It’s not like we’ve been sitting idle here,” Wick said.
“The Barrow King controls the only way out,” Ovyrm said.
“Then we take the fight to him,” Gryph said.
Wick opened his mouth ready to protest, but he knew Gryph’s words, however unwanted, were the truth. “Maybe Jebbis was the lucky one.”
Mention of Jebbis brought the dead gnome’s journal to the fore of Gryph’s thoughts, and he considered giving the journal to Wick. But Gryph did not wish to add more despair. It could wait.
Gryph became dizzy and nearly fell. Ovyrm caught him and Tifala rushed to his side. They eased him onto one of the stone slabs that doubled as a bed. Someone, likely Tifala, had persuaded a soft moss to grow across the hard stone surface. Just enough to provide some comfort.
“You need rest.”
“There is no time,” Gryph said, attempting to rise. He felt Ovyrm’s strong hand holding him down.
“She is correct. In this state you will likely get us all killed. We will wait.”
“Adjudicator,” Tifala said to Ovyrm. “How long can you shield our location from the Barrow King?”
“An hour, maybe two.”
“It will have to be enough." The life mage placed her hands upon Gryph’s head and closed her eyes once more. “There is nothing I can do about the debuffs, but I can help you sleep until they wear off.”
Gryph was about to protest when his mind drifted and the other's conversation became a dull hum. Before he knew it Gryph was fast asleep
*****
Wick felt like a third wheel at the summer solstice and gave them space to work. “I’ll go keep watch,” Wick said. Tifala gave him a sweet smile and, once again, Wick fell in love with her. He geared up and exited their hideout.
“Report Xeg,” Wick said to the imp, growing irritated. The chthonic creature always soured his mood, as if he exuded some kind of invisible, but malevolent aura.
“No things about, save for this rat,” Xeg said offhanded as he smashed the squealing rat against the wall with a bone crunching thud. “Rat is mine. No share.” With that he crunched the still twitching rat’s head off and chewed happily.
Wick held his hands apart to show that he was more than fine the imp was unwilling to share his raw rat. He sat down on a boulder and tried to calm his stomach.
He closed his eyes and attempted to ease his mind, to bring it to a state of nothingness. A slight tweak in the back from sleeping on hard rock made it difficult to find calm, much less the disgusting squelch of the hell beast eating vermin. Then there were the smells. His own ripeness and the sulfuric stench of the imp. He grumbled to himself as his eyes snapped open.
“This isn’t working.”
“Xeg much better at meditation than tiny blue hair midget. Cuz Xeg am smart and brilliant and very smart.”
“I’m at least three times your height,” Wick said. “And you meditate?”
“Have you ever been to Bxrthygaal? Very nice.
Very relaxing. Easy close eyes listen to screams and relax.”
Wick eyed the demon with a sideways glance. He knew that his mastery over the creature was complete, but he still did not trust it even slightly. He tried to ease his mind, but images of massive pitchforked demons and tortured souls filled his mind.
Wick sighed in frustration and stood, checking his equipment again. His movements were slight and nearly silent, but evidently still irritating to the imp.
“Xeg relaxing. Very, very good at relaxing. But stomp, stomp, stomp of your big clumsy feet very distracting.”
“Okay, enough relaxing, let’s go,” Wick said, standing and readying a spell. “Go forward a way and tell me what you see. Our friends said they encountered several wyrmynn patrols on their way here. We don't want to be caught off guard.”
“Xeg does. Xeg thinks it funny when small blue head gets killed by stinky lizard things.”
“Just do what I say,” Wick said. “Exactly what I say. Look for things, stay silent, report back to me the moment you find something.”
Xeg grumbled something under his breath in his native language that could have been an insult or could have been ‘I love you’ if his species had such a concept. Their language was so ugly that every word whispered or yelled, made Wick suspect the tiny beast was plotting his murder.
Yet, the imp obeyed and bounced down the tunnel and soon disappeared. To make the time pass, Wick pulled out his journal. He had been writing since the day they had left the village. He had dreams of publishing his tales as a great epic, like Gersham the Adventurer. Wick hoped that his tale would rival his hero’s book, but he now suspected Gersham had never been on any adventures. Adventure brought only death, and death was no glorious thing. Wick became lost in his reverie, staring at the blank page that had seen no words in days. Not since they had lost Jebbis. Poor, sweet Jebbis. Always so eager to please, always so easy to talk into things.
They’d been in the Barrow for a few weeks and their numbers had dwindled. Hugarn had been first. Big, dumb, loyal and brave, poor Hugarn had saved them all from the undead horrors in the lower Barrow. Ancient wights and revenants controlled by some unseen master. The same kind of creature that had commanded the wyrmynn.
