by C. M. Carney
What frightens him so much?
“We should reach the gate to the Inner City soon,” Myrthendir said, changing the subject. He moved ahead of Gryph, lost in his own thoughts.
Wick moved to follow him, but Tifala placed a hand lightly on his forearm arresting his motion. Wick looked up at her in confusion. “Leave him be my love. He still grieves.” A look of understanding crossed Wick’s face, followed by a flush of embarrassment as if he’d just realized how much of the fanboy he’d been acting. He nodded to Tifala and kissed her hand lightly.
A few minutes later they came to a chamber easily as large as the biggest football stadiums of Earth. Seating for thousands lined the walls, all looking down on a central dais where a large stone chair sat in front of a massive statue of some ancient Thalmiir king. The cracks and chips of time lay riven across the proud Thalmiir’s face and he held a massive double-bladed axe.
“Durgath the Doombringer,” Myrthendir said. “He was the first Stone King of the Thalmiir. He reigned in this city for a thousand years before he fell in battle against the last Dragon King during the time before the Ruin.”
“Dragons aren’t real,” Wick said, his tone that of a know-it-all teen.
“Not for many millennia,” Myrthendir agreed. “But, they ruled Korynn before the birth of all our peoples.”
“So there is truth to the legends?” Tifala asked, amazed.
“Nearly all legends grow from seeds of truth,” Myrthendir said.
“As do all lies, all betrayals,” Ovyrm said.
Myrthendir’s gaze locked onto the xydai’s yellow eyes and for several moments Gryph felt the air in the room become heavy. Then the Prince Regent nodded. “Quite correct, adjudicator.” Myrthendir turned and walked around the base of the massive statue. After a moment Tifala and Wick followed.
Gryph walked up to Ovyrm who was watching Myrthendir’s back. “What is it?”
“I am uncertain,” the xydai said. “I have known a loremaster or two in my life. They portray themselves as scholars seeking great truths, but they are just as often rogues who were not above theft and murder to gain the knowledge they coveted. They were hoarders who use their knowledge to dominate others. This elf prince might differ from those men, but he may also be just like them.”
“In my experiences, people are never just one thing, and sometimes even they don’t understand why they do the things they do,” Gryph said.
“That has been my experience as well.”
The xydai followed the rest of the group. Gryph looked up at the towering figure of Durgath the Doombringer and saw something in the long-dead king’s expression that was somehow familiar as if he had once known the man whose visage it portrayed.
Is this man an ancestor of the man I once was? Does that mean he is my ancestor? Gryph still didn’t quite believe in the concept of past lives and eternally reborn souls, despite the evidence of his soul reverie. The whole idea contradicted all that he had been taught, and even though it was a cultural bias, he still found it hard to discount. After a moment Gryph shook his head chasing the foolish thought from his mind and followed his companions.
He found them all staring wide-eyed up at the largest pair of doors Gryph had ever seen. These massive doors slid open on large tracks set into the ceiling and floor. Gryph looked up at the towering slabs of stone and true iron, adorned with intricately carved portrayals of Thalmiir warriors clad in heavy plate armor and bearing massive hammers, axes, and swords.
Quite an effective warning, Gryph thought, impressed by the design choice that allowed the Thalmiir sentinels to look down upon, and warn, anyone who came into the room. Although they were mere carvings in stone, Gryph could sense the capability in those visages and he was glad he would not have to face off against the warriors they represented.
Long trails scoured in the dust along the tracks suggesting that they had recently opened them, and likely for the first time since they had sealed the city.
“The Sentinel Gate guards the entrance to the Inner City of Dar Thoriim,” Myrthendir said. “In the ancient days, only the Thalmiir were allowed beyond this point. The penalty for anyone foolish enough to ignore that law was death.”
“Let’s hope the landlords aren’t home,” Gryph said.
“Why would the Dwellers leave these open?” Wick asked. Everyone looked at the diminutive gnome. "They have to know that we're coming after them, or that someone will. If they’re trying to steal whatever secrets this place hides, why leave these doors open? Surely they must have used the Seal of the Dwarven King to open the gates."
“Agreed,” Ovyrm said.
“Then why not close them after they entered? It makes no sense to let us follow them.”
“Unless they want us to follow them,” Myrthendir suggested.
“Why would they wish that?” Ovyrm asked.
“I do not know,” the elf prince said, a dour expression crossing his face.
Gryph felt a chill run down his spine. “Guess there’s only one way to find out.” The others looked at him with expressions that ranged from agreement to disbelief and after a moment he gripped the shaft of his spear in a white-knuckled grasp and took a tentative step over the wide metal band built into the floor that marked the threshold to the inner city.
Gryph stood rigid as his pounding heart counted the passing seconds. There was no sound at all. No clanking of an approaching goliath, no hiss of wall mounted flamethrowers powering up, no grinding whine of approaching metallic spheres ready to unfurl ballista at him. After ten furious beats, he let himself breathe once again. After thirty seconds his shoulders lowered, easing the knots of tension throughout his body. At a full minute, he looked back at his fellows and shrugged.
One by one the rest of his companions also stepped over the metallic border. The silence of peace held for all of them, broken only by the exhalations of relief each of them made as their crossing failed to trigger an attack.
“That was fun,” Wick said, easing the tension everyone had been holding in.
Gryph looked at Myrthendir and indicated he should take the lead again. The Prince Regent nodded, and the companions fell into position behind their party leader. The gallery they were in was nearly as high and long as the one beyond the Sentinel Gate, but it was half again as wide. Odd spheres lined the walls at even intervals casting a warm golden light that easily illuminated the entire chamber.
Gryph looked up to see a host of balconies lining the walls in tiers. Solid stone bridges spanned the distance between walls crosshatching the open air above him. His tactical mind could envision a host of defensive capabilities these structures could provide, and he was glad that he would not have to face the Thalmiir on their home turf. As if defying his unspoken wish the sound of hundreds of skittering metallic legs came at them from behind.
21
“Run!” Gryph yelled as he punched urgency into his own legs and rushed towards the far end of the massive gallery. Behind them, a swarm of spider like automatons skittered after them on eight metal legs. None were yet close enough to attack, but they moved much faster than the group and would soon catch them. Gryph glanced back and used Analyze.
Thalmiir Arachnid. Level 6 - H:150/S: 300/ M: 100/ SP: 0
Thalmiir Arachnids are the most common of the Thalmiir automaton constructs. They spend most of their time hidden in the small passages that parallel the main thoroughfares and passageways of Thalmiir cities and provide maintenance services. In cases of extreme emergency, they can defend the city. They are individually weak, but as a swarm, they can quickly overwhelm even the most powerful of adventuring parties.
Strengths: Unknown. Immunities: Unknown. Weaknesses: Unknown.
“Shit!” Wick exclaimed, using an Earth swear word that Gryph had accidentally taught the gnome. “There are more of them ahead of us.”
Gryph snapped his eyes to the front and then to each side and saw that Wick was only half right. “And to the left.”
“They’re herding
us!” Ovyrm yelled above the ever-growing cacophony and sprinted towards an arched doorway to the right.
“Successfully,” Gryph said and followed the yellow-eyed xydai as fast as he was able.
Myrthendir spun around and raised his staff over his head. “Keep moving!” he yelled and then chanted in some incomprehensible language that even Gryph’s Gift of Tongues could not translate. Perhaps I need to hear the language clearly to understand, Gryph thought but put the need out of his mind as the sound of metal legs clacking on stone grew closer.
Myrthendir brought the staff down onto the stone floor with an audible crack and pulses of shimmering gray energy spread from the point of contact. The first pulse flowed over the advancing swarm and their progress slowed as if the fabric of space-time was reaching up to grab the advancing automatons. A second pulse slowed the swarm ever more until another wave of the spider constructs hit the field and then their speed increased as the added weight of the swarm pushed against the rubbery surface of the field.
Tifala, Ovyrm, Wick, and Xeg all reached the relative safety of the passageway and turned to guard the opening. Myrthendir grunted and forced more mana into his staff and another wave flowed forth. Gryph rushed to his side, skewering an automaton that had squeezed through the field. Myrthendir sent a sideways glance at Gryph. “Get to the passage. I cannot hold them much longer.”
“I’m covering your back,” Gryph said and saw the anger in the elf’s shoulders, but his spell cost too much effort for him to turn his attention from the task. “We do not leave people behind.”
“If I let go now, they’ll be on us before we get to the passage.”
Gryph cast Flying Stalactite from each hand, unleashing a pair of stone missiles at two of the spiders that had nearly eased their way through the field. The first stalactite smashed against the sturdy carapace, knocking the arachnid onto its back, but dealing more cosmetic damage than actual. The second missile of stone caught the arachnid at the joint between foreleg and shell and punished the construct with a Critical Hit. It slumped to the floor, leaking more of the same golden oil present in every automaton they’d encountered so far.
Gryph had no time to celebrate as more of the machines pushed their way through the reality distortion field. One scuttled towards Myrthendir and Gryph dumped mana into his Elven Boots of Deftness. The soft leather boots seemed to thrum with energy as Gryph felt his speed increase. He drew his spear from his back, snapped it to its full length and leapt forward. He was a blur of motion as he thrust down again and again with his spear, puncturing arachnids that gushed oil like spurts of golden blood.
The swarm kept coming. “We’re running out of time,” Gryph yelled, but his voice was drowned out by the clacking of several hundred metal legs smacking against the granite floor. Myrthendir couldn’t hear him. Is the damn fool planning on sacrificing himself, Gryph thought and his mind flew back to the comment the Steward had made on the Prince Regent. He is rash and will sacrifice himself for others.
Dammit, Gryph thought as another gout of oil erupted from an impaled arachnid. Gryph’s eyes widened at the spreading pool and an idea came to him. He gripped his spear like a hockey stick and slap shot the downed construct towards the passageway. His aim was true, and it skittered across the granite floor to Ovyrm who arrested its passage with his foot. The xydai looked up in confusion, but Gryph had no time to explain as he harpooned another of the small bots. He shot that construct the other way where it bumped lightly against the back of Myrthendir’s boots, another line of oil left in its wake.
Gryph sheathed his spear again and grabbed the length of spider silk rope from his side. As his other hand moved through the motions of his air magic spell Animate Rope, he realized the two lengths of spider silk had rejoined. Cool, self-healing rope.
He threw the rope towards Myrthendir. It took on a life of its own and under Gryph’s directions, it snaked around the elf lord’s waist. A small grunt of surprise came from the elf as Gryph turned and tossed the other end to Ovyrm.
The xydai immediately understood what Gryph intended and pulled on the rope. Myrthendir nearly toppled over backwards as the tension snapped the rope tight, but instinct took over and he leaned forward, letting the slick oil and the adjudicator’s muscles do the work.
Gryph backed up and kept pace with the sliding elf lord, using his reality wiping shield as cover. They reached the passage and Gryph commanded the rope to detach from the elf lord and coil itself back at his waist. Myrthendir nodded at Gryph as the party backed down the passage.
There was no door, but at least the swarm’s numbers would be constrained by the limited space. Ovyrm guarded their retreat as the group ran down the tunnel towards an unknown fate. Wick rounded a corner and Gryph heard the gnome yell “Door! There’s a door ahead.”
The group increased their speed, turned the corner and rushed to safety. Ovyrm slipped in just before the closest arachnid’s leg could become a doorstop. Wick tossed the crossbar into its slot, securing the door.
Gryph felt the artificial boost to his speed fade and with it came the inevitable stamina hit. His breath came in ragged gasps and he nearly threw up, feeling like a man who’d barely finished a marathon he hadn’t properly trained for.
“Everyone all right?” Myrthendir asked. Nods from all around assured him that everyone was in good health.
“That was aetherial magic,” Wick said, eying the Prince Regent with fearful awe.
“Aetherial? Are you sure?” Ovyrm asked, eyes snapping up to Myrthendir.
Wick tapped the goggles he’d pulled over his eyes. “Top of the line Maker Goggles. My pop spent a bundle on them. Add their cost to his disappointment in his son.”
Ovyrm gave the elf lord an icy glare.
“What’s the big deal?” Gryph asked. After all, I have 100% Affinity for every sphere, including aetherial.
“Aetherial magic is arboleth magic,” Ovyrm said, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword and slipping a few inches of the red bleed metal from its sheath.
“It is,” Myrthendir said with no hint of apology or nervousness in his tone. “I told you I have studied many things commonly believed to be lost. Some that are even considered taboo. I am a Loremaster. I seek knowledge wherever it is found.”
The explanation failed to soothe Ovyrm’s suspicions and his hand never wavered from his weapon. Myrthendir eyed him levelly.
“Are you going to kill me xydai? Take my life because you do not understand something. Because ancient fears have poisoned your soul?” the Prince Regent said, somehow seeming to grow more regal. “I would have thought you, of all people, would not let ancient hatreds turn you down the path of darkness.”
Ovyrm glared at the elf lord for several long heartbeats. Gryph thought he could see the man shaking, trying desperately to control himself. Finally, the xydai released his weapon and the snick of his blade finding its home was audible in the deep silence.
“Xeg know aetherial magic too.”
“No you don’t,” Wick said, and the imp scowled, but then hung his head.
“No. No Xeg know not. Xeg tell funny joke.” Then an unnerving bark that lay somewhere between a chihuahua and a flatulent seal erupted from the imp’s mouth.
“Your jokes suck,” Wick said, interrupting Xeg’s disturbing laughter.
Xeg just glared at Wick for a moment before the imp’s eyes went wide. “Creepy man stare at Xeg.”
All eyes turned in the direction that Xeg was looking. The wall on the far side of the room was a floor to ceiling pane of glass. Behind it stood the oddest ‘man’ Gryph had ever seen. He was tall, reaching nearly seven feet, and muscled like an Olympic gymnast. Xeg had been right, as the deepest pair of black eyes he’d ever seen turned from Xeg to stare at Gryph. He was hairless and wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing, revealing a blank area where his genitalia should be. Somehow the lack made the man more unnerving. He reminded Gryph of the Ken doll Brynn had owned as a child, the one whose lustrous blonde hair
had been shorn clean off when Finn had thought it would be fun to use the doll to stir a can of paint thinner.
One of the arachnid automatons sat perched on the man’s wide shoulder like a parrot in a bad pirate movie. All around him on the walls of the room beyond the glass, a dozen more of the spider constructs clung. The small slit that was the man’s mouth turned upwards in an awkward almost smile and then the man waved at them.
