by C. M. Carney
“Guess that would have been too easy,” a strangely altered voice said. If there had been another person there to hear the voice, they would have been hard pressed to identify it as male or female, and certainly could not attribute it to anyone, even a loved one or trusted friend.
Hands widened and low murmurs rose from behind the mask that shrouded features and voice alike. Gray light flowed down the arms and into the bag, snapping and writhing across its surface. A muffled grunt of pain burbled forth and the outstretched hands shook with exertion. A drop of sweat fell onto the bag.
The hands shook violently as the pain rose in the figure. Every nerve ending screamed for release, but the murderer could not, would not stop now. Heat charred mind and body as more of the silver power pushed into the clasp.
The figure turned its head towards the ceiling and a roar of agony burst from lips hidden behind the mask of silver terror. The noise pulsed through the tower, only partially muffled by the mask.
The figure collapsed forward, the scream and the flow of silver light stopping abruptly. Ragged gasps bent the murderer over and after a few moments the sound changed to the sound of frustrated weeping. “No. Dammit, no.”
The figure picked up the bag and smashed it to the floor as the last bits of silver energy sparked across the bag’s surface. The figure caught its breath and was about to stand when a nearly inaudible click drew his attention to the bag. The clasp flipped open, and the figure laughed in triumph. A gloved hand opened the bag and reached in, pausing for a moment as it searched a mental inventory of the bag’s contents.
Thunderous heartbeats pounded inside the figure’s chest, and slowly it pulled the hand back out of the bag. It held a five-inch diameter circle of metal and stone, intricately carved with ancient Thalmiir runes.
A laugh of relief and joy emerged from behind the mask as the figure tucked the Seal of the Dwarven King into the folds of the robes it wore. The hands moved towards the bag again, but the clasp of the soul bound satchel snapped shut like the snapping maw of a predator.
The figure grunted in surprise and shook the bag violently. “No, no, no,” it spat, tossing the bag to the ground. Shaking hands hovered over it once more, preparing to begin the process again. Tendrils of silver light flowed down the black clad wrists and into the fingers. Another grunt of pain escaped from behind the mask as a powerful will forced itself into the clasp.
The sudden knock at the door jarred the figure.
“My Lord are you alright?” came the voice of the Steward. There was a pause and then another, more urgent knock. “Regent?”
The figure stood and looked around in panic. The job was unfinished, but even if the toll of breaking the soul bound bag’s protections had not drained the figure of much of its stamina, health and mana, it would need time to force the bag open a second and third time to retrieve the arboleth eggs. The handle to the door turned, and the figure cursed, berating itself for not locking the door.
ΡΡΡΡΡ
“My Lord, I am coming in,” the Steward said, and the door opened. The Steward’s eyes widened when he saw the corpse of the Regent cooling on the ground and the shrouded figure standing over him. The silver mask bore a horrid alien visage and an inhuman howl of rage erupted from behind it. The form turned and ran through the Regent’s sitting room and towards his bedchamber.
Without hesitation the Steward raised a hand and fired a bolt of searing blue lightning at the murderer. It punched the fleeing form in the right shoulder and a muffled grunt of pain emerged from behind the mask as the figure’s arm seized. The bag, the soul bound satchel that belonged to the player Gryph, fell to the floor as the murderer dove into the Regent’s private sleeping chamber.
The Steward activated one of the powers of the amulet that hung from his neck. It was the badge of his office and it would send a mental alert to every guardsman in the palace. Soon the room, and the palace would swarm with fierce elvish warriors.
But, the Steward could not wait for their aid. It is time I dusted off my own skills, the Steward thought and began a casting as he rushed after the assassin. The Steward ran into the Regent’s private sleeping chamber, ready to send another bolt of jagged electric death at the shrouded figure, but the sight of the empty room stunned him.
“How?” the Steward asked himself in stunned incomprehension, looking back and forth. He saw the armoire pulled away from the wall. “Impossible,” the shocked half elf muttered. The Regent’s room had a secret door, one designed to allow the Regent to come and go in secret should the need ever rise. It also provided an escape route in the unlikely event that anyone, or anything, ever got this far into the palace. But the only two people on the face of Korynn who know about this door are me and the man now lying dead on the floor, the Steward thought in shock and fear.
The Steward ran to the armoire and pushed it further open. Behind it was a dark passage that curved downwards. The Steward knew the terminus to the secret passage lay far below and opened to a dozen more passages and hallways. Many led beyond the wall that protected the Spire. Even if he alerted the guards now, they would not be able to seal every exit before the murderer escaped. He still sent the order.
The Steward conjured a glow sphere and entered the steep stairs of the passageway. He didn’t even make it to the first turn when a hidden ward exploded under his foot, sending him flying backwards. He collapsed in a heap, unable to even scream as the energy scoured his body, and was unconscious before he hit the ground.
11
The sudden smash of the doors to their suite flying open roused Gryph from his trance. Within seconds a dozen low globes surged to blinding life and what seemed to be the entire palace guard surrounded them, all pointing deadly sharp spears at them.
The captain of the guard marched in. “Get to your feet, all of you!” he bellowed in a voice filled with barely controlled anger. Gryph and his friends stood, holding their hands before their eyes to shield them from the intense glare of the magical lights.
“What is going on?” Gryph asked.
“Come with us, now! Make no aggressive moves. I will not hesitate to skewer you where you stand!” the captain bellowed.
Gryph exchanged looks with Ovyrm, Wick and Tifala, all who returned glances of suspicion. They don’t trust me, Gryph thought. I guess I cannot blame them. He turned back to the captain and several guards moved aside with practiced military perfection, opening a path for them to the door. Gryph walked and as he passed the captain, the man raised his spear and used it to push him in the back. Gryph stumbled but kept his footing.
Several minutes later they were back in the throne room. A large crowd stood around the dais, shrouding all but the Twined Throne from Gryph’s view. As the guardsmen approached, the crowd parted giving them a clear path to the dais. They moved through the sea of faces. Some bore the red eyes of crying while others the deep scowl of anger. All of them glared at Gryph and his friends.
The crowd parted revealing the Steward standing at the foot of the dais. Myrthendir stood, tight-jawed and furious behind the empty throne where the Regent should have been sitting. Gryph’s heart leapt into his throat when he noticed the regal elf was not in his customary place. Sillendriel sat to the right of Myrthendir in a wooden chair. Her eyes were red from tears and her already fragile mental state seemed near to breaking. Her urgent mental warning came back to Gryph like a thunderclap
Something has happened. Gryph thought.
As they got close to the dais, the Steward stepped forward. “Halt,” he yelled and Gryph and his companions stopped. The Steward’s gaze turned from Wick to Tifala to Ovyrm and then settled on Gryph, where he held his icy gaze for several long moments.
Myrthendir walked down the dais and stood in front of Gryph. Ice and flame filled the man’s gaze as he stared into Gryph’s eyes. After a moment he moved on to the others and took his place next to the Steward.
“My father is dead,” the Prince Regent said. “Murdered in his own chambers.”
>
Tifala gasped and Wick muttered a curse under his breath. Ovyrm was predictably silent. Gryph looked at Myrthendir and was about to speak when the Prince Regent’s hand snapped up silencing him. “I know that you did not commit this heinous act. Both the guards and the wards on your rooms prove you never left, but that does not mean you are not responsible.”
A heavy silence hung in the throne room as several dozen pairs of eyes bored their anger into Gryph. Myrthendir held Gryph’s bag aloft. “This was found near my father’s body. The murderer used an unknown force to open the bag. The murderer took something from the bag, despite your soul bound protections.” The Prince Regent tossed the bag to Gryph, who snatched it from the air. “You will tell me what.”
Gryph gazed around to see every eye in the room was glued to him. A nervous energy built in him, accompanied by a twinge of guilt. Am I responsible for this? He returned his gaze to Myrthendir and saw in him all the power of his father, yet precious little of the self-control. He is on a knife edge, and I cannot say I blame him.
With no other option Gryph accessed his Inventory. He first checked on the arboleth eggs and was more relieved than he would have believed was possible to find them still there. It did not take him long to discover what was missing. “The Seal of the Stone King is missing.” Gryph said aloud as his eyes came back to Myrthendir.
Myrthendir’s jaw clenched as he met Gryph’s steady gaze. “So it is true,” he said and glanced down at the Steward whose jaw muscles tightened.
“I do not believe it, My Lord. I will not,” the Steward said in an adamant tone.
“It is the only conclusion that meets all the facts Gartheniel. I am sorry,” Myrthendir said in a voice tinged with regret. “Barrendiel is the only one of us unaccounted for. If he were innocent, then why is he not here?”
A gasp of disbelief escaped from Gryph before he calmed himself. The ranger captain? But why? Gryph’s mind flashed back to the argument between the Regent and the intense ranger, and he could not make sense of the idea. Sure Barrendiel had been passionate, desperate even, but Gryph had known many a warrior in his time and every fiber of his being told him that the captain was a fierce protector of his people, and his Regent. That he would resort to murder was … unthinkable.
The Prince Regent descended the steps to the Steward and placed a kind yet firm hand on the man’s shoulder. “I am sorry my old friend. Barrendiel was a son to you as he was a brother to me, but I need you with me. I need your counsel now more than ever.”
The Steward seemed to deflate before Gryph’s eyes as the truth of Myrthendir’s words took root in his soul. After a moment the half elf regained his composure and stood tall once again. He looked to his new liege and nodded.
Myrthendir turned his attention back to Gryph and his companions and the kindness he had shown the Steward drained from him like water from a dropped bucket. He walked straight up to Gryph.
“You will give me the arboleth eggs.”
Gryph’s eyes flashed to Sillendriel who had eased herself forward despite a whispered warning from the nurse at her side. Gone was the grief and the fear from those eyes as the vision she had shared with Gryph bored into his soul again. He turned to his friends’ eyes on him. With a deep sigh he turned back to the Prince Regent.
“I am sorry, but I cannot,” Gryph said.
Fury bubbled up inside Myrthendir and he took several steps forward and brought his mouth to Gryph’s ear. “I will kill all of your friends, one at a time if I must, but you will give me the eggs.”
The rage beneath the calm voice was like a coiled viper ready to strike, and Gryph knew the Prince Regent would follow through with his threat. Gryph looked with sadness to his friends. Ovyrm’s eyes narrowed as he understood the thoughts moving through Gryph’s mind. Tifala gripped Wick tighter. Only Wick spoke. “What are you doing man? Give this bastard the eggs and maybe, just maybe we’ll be allowed to grow old and crotchety.”
How can I trust in the vision she showed me? How can I trust her? Gryph looked up at Sillendriel once again. He wanted to cast Telepathic Bond so he could communicate with her, get her to offer him some assurance, some proof, but he suspected the guards would see any attempt to cast a spell as an attack. Instead he stared into her eyes imploring.
Her eyes were glazed, and she gave him a wan smile. She’s sedated, Gryph realized. I am on my own. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and searched his memories of his time in the Soul Reverie. He'd seen himself as the Stone King. He'd felt himself as Prime, and he knew the devastation the eggs would bring to Korynn if they matured.
It went against all logic and sense and every mote of his soul wanted to comply, to save his friends’ lives, but deep down where the real truths lay hidden Gryph knew what he had seen had been the truth. He opened his eyes and stared into Myrthendir’s eyes.
“I am sorry, but I cannot.”
Myrthendir’s jaw twitched as he tried to control his anger. “Captain,” he said over his shoulder and the armor-clad Captain of the Palace Guard came up behind him rigid and at attention. “Take the gnome summoner and execute him on my order.”
“Yes, My Lord,” the Captain of the Guard said, and he snapped fingers at two of his men.
The guards marched forward and grabbed Wick, tearing him away from Tifala’s grasp. Tifala’s scream tore at Gryph’s soul and then her direct pleadings to him stabbed deep into his heart. “Gryph, please,” she begged.
The guards pushed Wick to his knees and one placed the tip of his spear at the nape of the shaking gnome’s neck. Gryph wanted to launch himself at the guards, but he forced himself to stay rigid.
“Please don’t do this,” Gryph begged the Prince Regent. “The eggs are safest with me. I have seen what the Prime will do. If the eggs are taken from this bag by any hands but my own, the future will be a place of darkness and pain.” Gryph’s eyes flashed to the elf maiden’s and then back to the Prince Regent.
“You have seen?” Myrthendir asked and then turned towards Sillendriel. “Or you have been shown?” The look in Gryph’s eyes gave the tall elf the answer he needed. “Beware visions and portents, my friend, they have a way of being misinterpreted.” He turned away from Gryph. “Captain, on my command.”
“Ready,” the Captain of the Guard bellowed and Wick tensed as he felt the tip of his executioner’s spear find its mark against his neck.
“Gryph please,” Tifala begged in a voice that like her spirit had broken.
Gryph forced himself to look her in the eyes and the same tears flowed from his as hers. “I’m sorry, but I cannot.”
“Captain…” Myrthendir began and tension lay heavy in the air.
Ovyrm’s gaze burned into him and Tifala's gasp of pain punched him in his heart, but it was Wick’s calm voice that broke the silence hovering like the stale hot air of a humid midsummer day.
“It’s okay Tif, I will find you in the next life. Together forever.”
Tifala surged towards her love, but Ovyrm’s strong hands held her. “No, no, no,” she said, her voice broken and low.
As the Prince Regent brought his hand down a single word formed in his mouth, but then a thunderous command split the air.
“Hold!” the Steward yelled in a booming voice. “And lower your weapon.”
The captain pulled his spear from the back of Wick’s neck and slammed the butt onto the marble floor with a thud.
Myrthendir turned on the Steward in a fury. “How dare you countermand my order. I am Regent now.”
“You are not, not yet,” the Steward said in a calm, almost warm voice and placed a hand on the tall elf’s shoulder. “We have yet to sit Gyr Thera, the Wait. You will not be Regent for a week, not until your father is put to rest and your fury and anger has faded.”
“A foolish law,” Myrthendir spat.
“But the law nonetheless My Lord. And we do not execute anyone until their guilt has been proven. We are not the Dark Ascendancy.”
