Omnibus Volume 1

by C. M. Carney

  Errat stopped, and the skittering grew quiet. Had he possessed a heart it would have been pounding like an overworked piston, but he was not, in the strictly biological sense, alive. Like his metal companions, the man was a construct of magic and artifice. Silence hung heavy in the huge room. Each second stretched as the man waited. He knew his world was about to radically change.

  Then a metallic clang announced the withdrawal of the large cross braces. The massive black tungsten beams slid from brackets set into the doors with quiet ease into housings in the walls. Things so large should not be capable of such eerie silence and the sudden clang of the bolts retracting within the doors echoed like a thunderclap.

  At his feet the emerald arachnid twitched, easing a tentative leg out to touch the man on the foot. He looked down and smiled. “Easy, it will be fine.”

  The distant sounds of gears working rose from somewhere behind the walls and the doors opened. Conflicting feelings of fear and excitement built in the man. Apart from his metal friends, Errat had been alone for longer than he could remember. Distant memories of his father called from the corners of his mind. Have father’s people returned?

  The doors opened and settled into alcoves in the walls. Dim light poured into the room from a dozen glow globes backlighting five figures. Their long shadows crept across the floor questing towards the man. Without realizing it his mind reached out, and the arachnids moved into the room. The combination of light, cloak, and mask obscured the newcomer's features as they fanned out into defensive positions.

  “Make way for the master of Dar Thoriim!” a tall lithe figure shouted and brought the butt of a spear crashing down onto the stone floor with a snapping thud. The voice was deep, and it reminded Errat of his father.

  “Hello,” Errat said, raising a three-fingered hand in a cheery, if stiff, wave.

  An arachnid moved towards the nearest cloaked form. It was a short and stocky figure clutching a heavy two-handed hammer in its thick-fingered hands. The automaton reached a tentative limb out towards the figure, but a violent burst of motion brought the hammer down on the arachnid, crushing it with ease.

  Errat heard a voice yell in pain and anger and realized the sound had come from him. Blazing coronas of blue light formed mystical shields around the arachnids and the swarm surged forward. The hooded figures unleashed the power of magic and weapons. Despite their defensive shields, a dozen of the automatons fell in the first few moments. Hammer blows crushed some, others were sliced by the whirring blade of a sword, still, others were pierced by spear tip and arrow.

  However, it was the flares of magic that did the most damage. Electrical surges erupted from fingers of one of the hooded figures and thrummed into the nearest arachnid’s shield. After a few seconds, the shield blinked and failed and the lightning slammed into the automaton’s carapace. It shook and lost control of its body. Deep inside the armored shell, the electricity surged, charring the machine’s dynamo core. An overload tore through it and the core exploded, shredding the arachnid’s body from the inside. The blue-white bolt erupted from the destroyed machine, split and pummeled the shields of two more of the automatons. Soon their shields failed as well, and the cycle continued, two becoming four.

  Errat felt every one of the arachnids as their existence blinked out. Each one caused a jarring bolt of pain to flash through his mind. Before he knew of what he was doing Errat had leapt into the air, the artificial muscles in his legs sending him higher and farther than any normal mortal.

  He brought a knee down onto the nearest of the attackers, the stocky one with the hammer. Errat heard a dull snap as something inside the cloaked figure’s body snapped and the man grunted in anguish and fell to one knee. Errat had no weapon, but he brought a fist downwards into the man’s silver masked face.

  A small crack appeared in the mask and the man grunted in further pain, one hand reaching behind him to prevent him from falling onto his back. His other hand gripped the hammer and Errat saw a ring on the man’s finger flare with golden light. The light twined up the man’s arm like a coiling serpent bringing healing magic to his body. The man sighed in relief.

  The stocky man smashed upwards with the head of his hammer and a word of power snapped from him. The blow took Errat in the chest and a thrum of force slammed up and into him. Errat flew backwards and hit the wall, with a thwack. He slid to the floor and fell hard. His vision blinked red. The single strike delivered a major blow and his health hovered a hair over 70%.

  Shaking his head to clear his vision, Errat saw the stocky man charging him. The hammer came down in an arc and Errat stepped aside, grabbing the weapon’s haft and spun. He lifted the warrior full off his feet and tossed him towards his companion who was still pouring electrical current into the ever-branching root system of deadly lightning.

  The hammer wielder’s body smashed into the caster and the lightning ceased. With a mental command, Errat pulled the swarm of arachnids back. He’d felt the loss of nearly two dozen, each one a tiny stab of pain in his mind. He could not, would not lose more of his friends.

  The swarm lined up, shields flaring into a defensive wall and Errat backed from the room. Rage surged inside him, an emotion he had no experience with, and he felt tears flow down his face. “I just wanted to be friends,” he yelled, and he heard a sinister chuckle as another volley of electrical power slammed against the shield wall.

  Errat backed out of the room and ordered the swarm to scatter into a dozen of the small holes. The invaders were too large to follow his friends, and he hoped they would be safe. The cloaked figures advanced with an even pace showing no concern over the departed arachnids.

  Errat turned a corner and placed his hand onto a section of wall indistinguishable from the rest. A small rectangle of stone pushed inward and a section of the wall raised upwards with a near silent swoosh. Errat stepped into the darkness and slapped his hand against the inside of the wall. The door closed just as silently and a moment later, peering through a small peephole, Errat saw the invaders walk past. The hammer-wielding one paused for a moment staring towards the wall that hid Errat.

  The silver visage glared at the wall without expression and Errat eased tendrils of his thoughts through the aether. They twined invisibly around the mask and into the mind behind it. It felt wrong, stained and malicious. Errat wanted to pull out but did not. He saw a dim light in the mind’s depths and went deeper, pushing through a thick haze of solid fog. As he emerged into the glowing interior, his mind exploded with despair and pain.

  Help me!

  Errat pulled back in shock and confusion, and he saw the dwarf flinch and shake his head. He stood straight and turned back as one of his fellows barked a command at him. “I’m coming,” the dwarf said, and with one last glance at the wall he followed the others.

  20

  Gryph’s eyes scanned back and forth as they moved deeper into the ancient Thalmiir city, eyeing every statue, depression and alcove warily. They’d worked their way deeper into the city, encountering a wide variety of automatons. None had been as powerful as the goliath, but the ever-present clank of metal or whining of gears was fraying Gryph’s nerves.

  Myrthendir had been a fountain of information on the weaknesses of the various dwarven machines and the best tactics to attack and defend against them. With his aid, they’d moved through the city with only a few minor injuries.

  Wick was crushing hard on the regal elf, following on his heels like a precocious child, peppering the man with endless questions. “How do you know so much about the constructs?” “Where did you learn about the dwarves?” Gryph was embarrassed for Wick but saw no reason to rain on his small friend’s parade. If Gryph was being truthful, he also thought highly of the elf.

  Conversely, Ovrym had a deep distrust of the man, even taking Gryph aside to warn him that something was off with the Prince Regent. Gryph did not share the adjudicator’s suspicions, but he trusted the xydai’s instincts and promised to keep a constant eye on the tall elf.<
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  Gryph walked up to Myrthendir, saving him from another bout of babbling curiosity from Wick. “This isn’t the first Thalmiir city you’ve explored is it?”

  Myrthendir looked at Gryph with a quizzical expression before shaking his head. “It is not. When I was younger, when my elder brother was the heir, I journeyed to the outside world with Barrendiel.” The mention of his cousin’s name brought a sour expression to the elf lord’s face.

  “My father sent us to experience the world beyond our borders and learn about their people. He believed that to gain a true understanding of the Realms one must experience them first hand. While in the outside world I gained my Specialty and my Calling.”

  “A Specialty? A Calling?” Gryph asked, once more finding he missed Lex. His banner NPC may have possessed an irritating sense of humor, but he had been a great source of information about this strange universe.

  Myrthendir looked at Gryph in surprise and amusement. “Sometimes I forget that you are a player and new to this realm. I will try to explain.” He took a deep breath and Ovyrm stepped alongside him. Despite his mistrust of the elf, the xydai seems intrigued by Myrthendir’s last words.

  “You have a Calling?” Ovyrm said in a stunned voice.

  The Prince Regent looked at the xydai. “Yes, adjudicator, like you I am called to a higher purpose. I am a Loremaster of Xynthos.”

  Tifala gasped. “A loremaster.” For a moment Gryph thought she would bow to the tall elf. Wick’s mouth went slack, wanting to speak, but unsure what to say. It hung open for several seconds before he closed it. In the time he had known the gnome summoner he had never once seen him at a loss for words. Even Ovyrm seems impressed.

  “Okay, can someone tell the new guy what the hell you’re talking about?”

  Ovyrm smiled. “All sentients of the Realms can learn and master skills, based upon a wide variety of factors such as their Intelligence, Strength, Wisdom, and their Affinities for certain spheres of magic. Most people of the Realms will focus on a few, and most of these are the simple skills, carpentry, farming, brewing and the like. Those of greater abilities will sometimes become adventurers. You are already well on your way in that regard.”

  "Once you advance to level 20 you can choose a Specialty. Think of it as specializing down into mastery of one niche. I am an arms magus, a warrior who specializes in using magic not to cast spells, but to enhance the effectiveness of my martial skills, armor, and weapons." He held his hand out to Tifala. “Tifala, if I am not mistaken, is a life mage, well on her way to the Calling in one of the druidic schools.”

  The gnome woman nodded and smiled. “If the spirits of water, earth, and air will have me that is indeed my choice.”

  Ovyrm looked to Wick. “And our demon loving friend here has obviously chosen the path of the warlock.”

  “I made bad choices in my youth,” Wick said as if that explained anything. “I’m working on a new path.” He reached out to grab Tifala’s hand.

  “Um, okay. That makes sense, I guess.” Gryph said, imagining it was like getting a college degree. “How does one get a Specialty?”

  “First you must choose an area you want to specialize in and then find someone willing to let you apprentice for them. A Master will often spend years training you.” Ovyrm stared at Gryph. “But you’re a quick study, so you’ll likely achieve your Specialty much quicker.”

  Gryph picked up on Ovyrm’s veiled reference to the Godhead and cast a sideways glance at Myrthendir. He cannot know what I possess, can he? “And a Calling?”

  “A Calling is a further refining of your Specialty. It requires intense study and quite often has a spiritual quality to it,” Myrthendir said. “I am a loremaster, a seeker of lost knowledge. I trained in The Atheneum in Xynthos, a haven of learning from before the time of the Ruin. More than a million volumes are stored within the walls of the Atheneum, some of them in languages so ancient that nobody alive understands them. It was there that I studied the Thalmiir, learned of the world before the Ruin and rediscovered ancient knowledge. Then I went out into the world to discover and catalog long forgotten secrets. The Loremasters of Xynthos believe in one thing over all others; that knowledge is power.”

  A sense of déjà vu brought a chill to Gryph’s heart. He sounds like the Colonel.

  “During my travels, Barrendiel and I saw many wonders,” Myrthendir paused as if pained by some old memory. “And a few abominations that haunt my dreams to this day. While adventuring in an ancient Gypt temple, Barrendiel and I became separated and everything changed after that. I didn’t see how much until now.”

  The elf lord gripped his staff in white-knuckled hands and a look of regret painted his face. Gryph suspected his cousin’s betrayal was forcing memories of missed opportunities to the fore of his mind. I know that look and I know that feeling.

  “Eventually I returned home, secrets left undiscovered, my purpose in life left unfinished. I’d always hoped I could return to my studies, but then my brother died and my place was by my father’s side.”

  Gryph could feel the pain swirling inside the Prince Regent. He knew a little something about obligations and broken dreams. He was now the man Gryph because of obligation. A respectful silence hung in the air as the companions let the Prince Regent process his emotions. It did not last.

  “Xeg has Calling,” The imp had shrunk back down to his normal size.

  “No you don’t, you little red worm,” Wick said in irritation at the imp’s rudeness.

  “Does so, pea-brained grumpkin,” Xeg said and scowled at Wick from his perch on Tifala’s shoulder. She scratched lightly at his chin.

  “What is your Calling Xeg?” she asked, earning a glare from Wick that said, don’t encourage him.

  “Xeg am a Zyrrgtyth of Bxrthygaal,” the imp said, proudly pushing his chest out.

  “That’s not a thing,” Wick muttered.

  “Is too thing. Way better and more great thing than thing you no have,” Xeg said like a pouting child who was told his art project was no good.

  “I summoned you here,” Wick said. “I’d say that makes my thing better than your thing.”

  “Nuh uh,” Xeg said, sticking his tongue out at Wick. “Xeg here cuz want be.”

  “Enough children,” Tifala said.

  “Xeg ain’t no children,” the imp said, turning angry eyes on Tifala. “Xeg am be much ancient Xeg.”

  Tifala scratched the underside of his chin again. “Of course you are my mighty Xeg.”

  “Mightiest Xeg of all Xeg,” the imp said standing tall with his hands on his hips.

  Wick scowled and muttered under his breath something to the tune of “I need a new Specialty.”

  Gryph repressed a grin and changed the subject. He turned to Myrthendir. “What else can you tell us about the Thalmiir?” The elf smiled and nodded a small thanks to Gryph for ending the juvenile argument.

  “Few of the cities remain. Most are lost to the ravages of time, either plundered long ago or scuttled by their masters before leaving Korynn. Barrendiel was right about one thing, the Thalmiir had a well-documented tendency to jealously guard their technology and wealth.”

  Gryph thought he saw a pained expression glaze over the man’s face, but as soon as it formed it was gone. “It was one reason the Alliance was a surprise to many. Under normal circumstances, the Thalmiir were more likely to seal themselves away in their mountain homes than get involved in the affairs of the world. They were a proud people, to the point of arrogance and fought many an ancient war against my ancestors and the Nimmerian High Men and the Orc tribes of the Raal Zanaag.”

  “The Dark Ascendancy changed all that,” Gryph stated.

  “Yes, the arboleth know, they do not think, they know that they are the Realms preeminent species and that all others exist either to serve them or die.” Myrthendir sent a sideways glance at Ovyrm. “That is why they call themselves the Prime, and they have made it their mission to bring order, their order, to the cosmos. Against such
a foe, even the arrogant Thalmiir realized they needed aid.”

  “Do you think the Prime are responsible for the chaos infection in the Nimmerian ruins?”

  Gryph saw the Prince Regent’s expression change, but he could not read it. Had the mention of chaos brought his thoughts to his murdered father? After all, it had been Lassendir who was the only one to recognize the corruption as the taint of chaos. Perhaps he was feeling overwhelmed by the pressure of taking over his father’s position? Scrambling to understand how to protect his people from the many dangers they faced? For a man born not to lead, but to advise, that was a terrible burden indeed.

  “No. While the arboleth hate all life that is not Prime, they are devotees of order. They hate and fear the Princes of Chaos above all others.” He looked at Gryph. “In that, the Prime and I agree.” For just a moment the Prince Regent’s control dipped and Gryph saw the fear inside the man, yet it soon dissipated, replaced by purpose.