Omnibus Volume 1

by C. M. Carney

  That didn’t stop Wick from kicking the heavy door in frustration. Its wood seemed as unfazed as the pair of heavily armed guards that stood outside their prison. Only Wick’s foot took umbrage at the assault which only further soured the gnome’s mood.

  Tifala put her hands on his heaving shoulders and eased calm into her love. Wick relaxed for the briefest of moments before his shoulder’s tensed in rage again and he spun on Gryph.

  “Just how many lies have you told us since we met you?”

  “I am sorry about Jebbis,” Gryph said, regret digging into him. Jebbis was Wick’s cousin, brutally slain and then eaten in the Barrow by a baalgrath. Imagine a massive, and idiotic, reptilian gorilla and you’d perhaps begin to understand the foul creature that had nearly added Gryph to his diet as well. Only quick thinking and a bunch of luck had saved Gryph from joining Jebbis.

  “How could you hide his journal, that he was dead?”

  “You didn’t make the best first impression,” Gryph said by way of apology.” And then after Tifala was taken I didn’t know if you could handle more bad news. I am sorry, I know I should have told you.”

  Wick’s nostrils flared and Gryph knew only some of the gnome's anger was directed at him. From reading Jebbis’ journal, Gryph knew Wick blamed himself for getting Jebbis into the situation that led to his cousin’s death. Gryph also knew Jebbis did not share that feeling. Gryph berated himself for forgetting about the journal, but realized that, despite the pain it would cause, that his small friend deserved to know the truth of his kin’s death. Taking a deep breath Gryph told Wick what he knew.

  “If it helps, he did not blame you for his death.”

  Tifala held Wick as the small gnome shuddered, his emotions leaping from guilt to anger and back to guilt again. Periodically, Wick’s tear laden eyes would come to Gryph’s and Gryph did his best to hold that gaze with warmth and compassion.

  “I think I need a bath,” Wick said and looked to Tifala. She led him into an adjoining room where several large tubs sat on tiled floors, wisps of steam spiraling towards the ceiling.

  A sideways glance at Ovyrm told Gryph that the xydai was giving Wick’s emotions the respect they deserved, but that his anger at Gryph was even fiercer than the gnome’s. Gryph noted this and went over to the ash skinned warrior monk. A vein tensed in the man’s temple as Gryph stared him in the eye.

  “Say what you have to say,” Gryph said.

  “I am trying to be logical,” Ovyrm said. “I know that you cannot have known of the past of my people when you claimed the arboleth eggs, so my logical mind is willing to forgive your ignorance.”

  “But?” Gryph said.

  “However, you had just faced the beast and knew the danger it represented. I would have to guess that the prompts you received stated as much?”

  Gryph nodded but did not let his eyes fall from the xydai’s penetrating gaze.

  “Yet you still claimed the eggs. The arrogance of that action concerns me. It suggests a lust for power that must be fed no matter the cost.”

  Gryph sighed, and he knew there was truth in Ovyrm’s words. He may not have known just what hell an arboleth could unleash, but upon learning of the potential power of the eggs, he had ignored that danger. It had been a risk, even then he’d known it. Perhaps that risk had been unwise because he had no current ability to make use of the eggs. Yet, he had been taught to use every weapon that made itself available to him. Mind you, from what Ovyrm had told them about the arboleth, the eggs in his soul bound satchel were more nuclear than conventional.

  “You are right. I could claim ignorance as my defense and that defense would have some validity. And yes, the eggs can be used for great evil, but they can also be used to fight and protect against that evil. I promise you if we live through tomorrow, I will consult you on any use of the eggs. I will listen to your wisdom and consider it well before deciding. Is that acceptable?”

  Ovyrm hesitated for several moments, ancient fears chipping away at his logic and self-control. Gryph felt like he needed one last push of assurance.

  “For now they are safe. No one can access my satchel without my permission. It is soul bound, locked to all but me.”

  Ovyrm stared into Gryph’s eyes for several moments. “I will trust you to do what is right, but I will never be happy with this.”

  Gryph gripped the man by the shoulder and squeezed. “I understand, and I cannot ask more of you than to be true to your feelings.”

  Ovyrm took a deep breath. “And do not put too much faith in the wizardry of things. All locks can be broken. All doors can be opened.” With that the tall xydai turned and walked into the adjoining room. There he stripped off his tattered and filthy clothing and eased himself into one of the fragrant steaming baths.

  Gryph sighed. Our jailers are living up to their promises, Gryph thought, hoping it was not an ill omen of what was to come. Experience had taught him that such things could shift like the winds. With a sigh, he made his way into the room. Out of respect for his fellows, or perhaps fear of their reaction, Gryph chose the tub furthest from the others. The hot water eased his sore muscles and cleansed grime from him, creating a halo of muck and dirt. The tub sucked the muck away. It is filtering the water, Gryph thought in wonder. He closed his eyes and drifted into his reverie.

  As his mind dipped into a recuperative state, Gryph felt, for the briefest of moments, another mind touch his own. It felt both familiar and utterly alien and Gryph could not help but feel as if he was somehow being Analyzed. But his exhaustion dragged at him like the moon to tide and he embraced his reverie.

  10

  Lassendir knocked lightly on the ironwood door and then opened it. The room was airy and well-lit by glow globes. The healer who had been tending to Sillendriel stood and made a small bow to the Regent. He waved a hand that showed this was no time for formality.

  “I have given her Essence of Moonflower,” the healer said. “She is calm and should rest well.”

  “Thank you. Please give us a moment.”

  The healer bowed and silently walked to the door. Lassendir watched her leave and then the aged elf sat at the dark-haired elf woman’s bedside and looked down on her. Her eyes were closed and her chest rose and fell with a calm breath. He smoothed her raven hair with a light touch and she stirred, glazed eyes looking up at the Regent.

  “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  Sillendriel smiled and took his hand in her own.

  “How are you my child?”

  “My mind is awash in possibilities, father. I feel both great fear and great potential,” she said in a lethargic voice.

  Lassendir smiled down on her, but his mind was an uncontrolled cauldron of fear and worry. He wished he could let her sleep, but he trusted in her visions, despite their erratic nature. “Tell me what you have seen,” he said, hating that his role as Regent took precedence over his role as a father.

  “The Dwellers have always been here father, but now the time of darkness has come. This man Gryph will heighten it, but he is also the only one who can stop it. Too many strands of possibility swim in my mind and I fear that if I tug too hard on one the whole tapestry will unravel and leave us all in darkness.” Sillendriel gazed deep into the eyes of the man who had raised her. “There are more paths ahead of us than there was the day my parents died, and I could not prevent that.” Tears came to her eyes and the Regent bent to kiss her on the forehead.

  “Anything you can tell me, Sil, will be of great help,” the Regent said, using the pet name, the private name for the adopted daughter he loved as much as his own children.

  Sillendriel swallowed and looked into the Regent’s eyes. Her gaze focused as she looked at him and then she said. “Trust in Gryph.” Then her focus dimmed, and she closed her eyes and slipped into her reverie.

  Lassendir sighed and leaned forward to kiss her lightly on the forehead. Then he sat back and watched her. Be at peace my child. You deserve it.

  “How
is she?” a warm voice asked from behind the Regent. The older elf turned to see Myrthendir standing in the doorway, his eyes on Sillendriel.

  “She rests, son,” the Regent said, and he indicated an open chair.

  Myrthendir padded his way silently over to the chair and sat. For a long moment both men just stared down upon Sillendriel.

  “What happened between you two?” the Regent asked, and he suddenly seemed every one of his two thousand years, as if his previously powerful demeanor had been an act of will.

  Myrthendir sighed never taking his eyes from the slumbering woman’s face. “After my journey to the outside world I was a different man. I had changed and was no longer worthy of her.” Myrthendir’s face was calm, but his eyes cast a light of loss, and perhaps regret.

  “She does not feel this way,” Lassendir said, looking at his son. “Nor do I.”

  “But I do, father.” Myrthendir looked into his father’s eyes. “I was not meant to be your heir, that was Orthendir’s path.”

  “Your brother’s death was my fault not yours. As was your mother’s, and Sillendriel’s mother’s and her father’s,” Lassendir said, looking down upon Sillendriel. “She saw so many paths that I can be forgiven for not understanding which one would come to pass, but I should have done more. It is my fault that they died.”

  Myrthendir rested a hand lightly on his father’s shoulder. “You are no more at fault than I, or her,” he said nodding down at the sleeping woman. “When Barrendiel and I left the Sylvan Aenor to find our purpose we felt free. We believed that we could choose our destinies, but both of us were soon disavowed of that notion.” Myrthendir looked up at his father. “We are not the masters of our own fates, father. We all walk paths the Realms choose for us.”

  “And what path do you walk my son?” Lassendir said, and a look of concern crept into the older elf’s eyes.

  Myrthendir looked down on Sillendriel as love battled purpose in him. “I cannot see what is to come as she can, but I know this, my path will take me through the darkest of nights, but if I can find my way to the other side, I will change the Realms as we know them. The burden of a new age weighs on my shoulders.”

  Lassendir gripped his son’s shoulder. “How can I help you with this burden?”

  “You cannot, father. I wish that you could, but it is a journey I must make on my own.”

  The Regent sighed knowing his son spoke a deeper truth. Then he nodded and stood. “Ultimately we all walk our path alone. I wish it were not the way of the Realms, but it is. Yet, know this my son, I will aid you in any way that I am able no matter the cost.”

  Myrthendir looked up at his father and tears sat in the corners of his eyes. “I know you will, father.”

  With a squeeze of his son’s shoulder, Lassendir turned and walked to the door. He turned back to his son, whose eyes already drifted to the woman he had loved and lost. "Walk your path, my son, and find your way back to us." He turned and exited the room, closing the door behind him with a small click.

  Myrthendir reached a hesitant hand out, ready to stroke an errant hair from Sillendriel’s brow. As he came close, his hand shook, and he pulled it back, forming a fist. After a moment the shaking stopped and the tall elf stood. He looked down upon Sillendriel. “I’m sorry,” he said in a barely audible voice.

  ΡΡΡΡΡ

  Lassendir entered his chambers to find the Steward waiting for him. The half elf stood and bowed. The Regent waved an irritated hand at the Steward. “How many times have I told you to dispense with formalities when we are alone Gartheniel?”

  “Many times My Lord.”

  “Yet you seem incapable of remembering so simple a command.”

  “Yes, My Lord. I do not know what has happened to my memory,” the Steward said with a small smile.

  “Your memory is as perfect as it was the day I made you Steward, so stop playing coy. I have so few that treat me as a man and not a lord. I do not need less, so stop being so damn formal.”

  “As you command My Lord,” Gartheniel said.

  Lassendir laughed and indicated the Steward take a seat. Reluctantly the man sat, and the Regent sat opposite him. “What have you found?”

  The Steward opened an ancient tome, crusted with dust and yellowed with age. “This is Kurgan’s History of the Alliance, the last known testament of the Thalmiir before the Alliance took to the skies and the Outer Realms. In it, he relates the last conversation he had with Grimliir, the chief artificer of Dar Thoriim.” The Steward cleared his throat and read.

  Grimliir came to me awash in fear. He told me the Stone King was dead by his own hand. It shocked me to my core, and I prepared to have my old friend arrested for regicide, but Grimliir told me a tale of the madness that had led our liege to unleash the Khaz Eraam, the final weapon. Grimliir told me to evacuate the city. He and his team would stay behind to ensure that they contained the weapon. He told me no matter how the final battle against the Dark Ascendancy went, Dar Thoriim was forever lost. To open its gates once more could mean the end to all the free peoples of the Realms.

  Gartheniel snapped the book shut and placed it on the table between the two men. Lassendir rubbed his temples, trying to ease the tension that was ever-present these days. After several moments he looked up at the Steward. “So it is settled, the seal must be destroyed.”

  Gartheniel nodded and reached down, placing Gryph’s worn satchel on the table between them. “You will force this player to give you the seal?”

  Lassendir nodded. “And the eggs. I do not relish the sentence I may have to pass, but if this Gryph does not heed the demand, then Conclave gives me the right to force him to do so. I hope he is smart. I take no pleasure in taking life.”

  The Steward nodded and stood. “Then I will take my leave of you. Get some rest Lassendir,” the Steward said.

  But Lassendir was lost in thought and noticed neither his Steward’s use of his common name nor the slight click as he closed the door behind him. Minutes dragged by as the Regent pondered his options. No obvious answers were forthcoming to the morass of decisions and choices that confronted the elder elf. Not for the first time in his life did he wish that the burden had fallen on another’s shoulders. The revelation that the High King would never return to relieve him of the burden only heightened that feeling. No point in tossing useless wishes into the aether, Lassendir thought.

  So absorbed with his worries was the suddenly old looking elf he did not hear the soft footsteps that approached him from behind until the last moment. A soft whisper of a boot on stone reached his ears, and he turned with a small jump. The startled look turned to horror and then pain as the sharp blade of a dagger found its way between his ribs and into his heart.

  The knife wielder held the Regent as his life ebbed from him. Blood dripped down the blade in a slow trickle and seeped over the sapphire eyes of the dragon that formed the guard and grip, staining the black leather of the gloved hand that held it. The older elf’s eyes were wide in shock and pain and he opened his mouth to speak. His voice was thin and low, and a single word fell from his lips before his eyes went blank.

  “Why?”

  ΡΡΡΡΡ

  The figure with the knife eased the Regent’s body to the ground and closed the eyes that no longer held the light of life. The murderer wiped the blade against the Regent’s robes, cleansing it of blood, and spun it into a waist sheath.

  The figure grabbed the satchel that belonged to the player named Gryph and placed it on the floor. It was a plain thing, with a strap and a clasp that held it closed. Leather clad hands tried to pry open the clasp, but despite the strength applied to the seemingly simple task, the bag would not open.