by C. M. Carney
“Gryph?” Wick asked in shock.
The shell that had been Gryph stood rigid, like a war drone awaiting commands. Avernerius’ monstrous new form failed to impress or terrify this new Gryph. He felt no confusion or amusement at Wick’s unexpected skin tone. Only deep down, buried under layers of control, did Gryph feel anything at all, and that was fear for his friends. Run, this part of his mind screamed.
But nobody could hear him and then the black fog erupted from the cube once more.
33
Deep in the bowels of the city, in a room that was not on any maps, the lid of a coffin-sized box slid open and a man thought long dead awakened from slumber. He’d spent millennia cocooned in a mantle of unmoving time, but from his perspective his eyes had closed mere moments ago.
The man was stocky, broad of arm and chest and wore a long beard that hung to his waist. His skin was the leathery quality of one used to hard work and a sharp intelligence burned in his eyes. Those same eyes struggled to focus, and he blinked to clear the sleep of ages from them. He tried to speak, but his throat felt like a tube filled with sawdust. He smacked his lips and moved his tongue along his teeth, stimulating long dormant salivary glands.
“Maevnera, did the stasis field not form?” No voice came back to the man’s eager ears no matter how hard he strained. The only sounds were a deep and distant rumble he felt more than heard and a rush of nearby water. “Maevnera?”
He tried to sit up, but his muscles were stiff and the small effort spiked him with a dozen cramps. He grit his teeth and his breathing grew harsh as he willed the pain away. After a few moments the spasms subsided and his eyes cleared enough to see motes of dust floating in the air above his head, dimly lit by magical glow globes on the walls and ceiling.
Why is it so dusty? And where is my wife?
Panic built up in him as realizations that he had not quite made swam in the deepest recesses of his mind. Then, like a fog burned away by the morning sun, realization hit him with the force of a hammer blow to the chest.
The stasis worked, and the city has awakened me. There was only one thing that could mean. Someone has opened the city!
He pushed his will into his muscles and pulled himself from the sarcophagus. More dust puffed into the air as his feet came to the ground. His knees buckled under him and he nearly fell. He turned to see his wife’s sarcophagus a dozen feet away and knew something was terribly wrong. It lay partially open, a layer of dust sprouting from the exposed lip like mold. He took a tentative step as fear bit into him. His second was steadier and by the third step he was running. He grabbed the heavy stone lid and heaved with his considerable strength.
For a few seconds nothing happened, but then the lid moved inch by inch, until it eased back into its track and slid open. Inside among the dust, detritus and vermin droppings was the remnants of a skeleton and a necklace of platinum and sapphire.
A strangled sound tried to force its way from deep inside him but failed. His legs gave way, and he collapsed against the sarcophagus. Tears filled his eyes as the depths of his loss pushed through the shock and he wept. He did not know how long he mourned when a voice spoke to him.
“Grimliir, get off your fat, lazy ass.”
Grimliir jumped, eyes scanning the room, heart thumping somewhere between excitement and fear. “Maevnera?” He knew the moment the name left his mouth that she would not answer, that the voice he’d heard had not spoken in millennia, but was a figment of his own making.
Maybe I have gone mad?
They had both known the dangers of the plan. He had tried to talk her out of joining him, but she had reminded him their mission was too important to fail and two chances at success were better than one.
Their plan had always been a desperate one. Stasis was a tricky proposition; equipment could fail, someone could discover their hidden lair and perhaps worst of all, stasis could tear at one’s sanity. The risks increased the longer the stasis lasted.
“And I’m hearing voices.” And talking to myself.
He took a deep breath, steeled himself for what he was about to do and stood. He looked down into the hollow meant to preserve life that had, instead, stolen his wife’s life from them both. Maybe it isn’t her, his mind begged, but it was a foolish wish born of desperate hope. The necklace was the one he had given her on their bonding day. Gently he pulled the length of silver and platinum free and said his goodbyes.
Only then did his mind allow him to wonder why he had been woken. And how long have I been asleep? He walked over to the work table at the far end of the room. Like everything else a thick layer of dust covered the stone surface. He wiped it clear and placed his hand on a small indentation. The spot grew warm, and a white light flared under his hand. He pushed down and a square section slid down, and the desk split in half expanding outwards as another section pushed its way up. An array of glowing runes lit the surface.
He ran his fingers over the surface, tapping several of the runes. They pulsed and changed, granting Grimliir access to a host of information. He found what he was seeking and his mouth hung open.
“I’ve been in stasis for 6,719 years.”
The part of him that was the crafter, the thinker, and the artificer wondered how the Realms had changed in all that time. Was the world a better place? Worse? If someone had gained access to the city, then things were likely to get worse, much, much worse.
Panic pulsed into his heart as a thought occurred to him and his fingers flew over the runes. Several more clicks and the sound of a heavy slab of moving stone drew his attention. The left wall split into sections and parted.
The door to the vault was a series of interconnected slabs of stone designed to be impossible to open. One could hack with a sword, axe or blast it with magic for days upon days and not gain access. It took a complex code to open. Only two people in all of existence know the code. He caressed the platinum chain at his throat. And both are in this room. He pushed thoughts of his dead wife from his mind and stepped inside the vault. Additional glow globes came to life, illuminating shelves laden with precious metals, gems, magical powders and crafting materials off all kinds.
A massive automaton stood to the left, opposite a slot that looked to have once housed another of the large metal monstrosities. At first glance the automaton seemed to be of the standard goliath design, but a closer examination revealed a hollow the exact size of an average Thalmiir.
Grimliir’s heart thudded in his chest. Her rig is gone? He tore his eyes away from the empty slot and rushed to an adamantine cube built into a stone dais. From all appearances the cube seemed solid. It had no hinges or doors, no cracks of any kind. Grimliir placed his hand atop it and the metal turned from solid to liquid and flowed aside, revealing a square space.
A red velvet pillow rested on a raised platform. A circular impression embedded into the soft cloth as if something heavy and about eight inches in diameter had once lain there. Seeing the box was empty, Grimliir flinched backwards as if bitten. He stood and stared for several long beats of his heart.
“The Seal of the Dwarven King is gone. How?”
The full burden of his useless sacrifice hit him and he became dizzy. His hands gripped the edge of the desk preventing him from falling. Then his knuckles went white as fear turned to fury.
“I have failed.” His wife had died for nothing.
34
Barrendiel vomited again and Sillendriel held him, muscles straining to support her brother’s weight. His legs buckled, and they both fell and skinned their knees. Twenty minutes had passed since Sillendriel had pushed Myrthendir from her brother’s mind and while the physical symptoms were fading, his mind would not be whole for some time, if ever. He was dehydrated and starving. Had she not found him, he would soon have died.
“How did you find me?” his voice cracked with pain and regret.
“We’ll talk about that later. Now we need to get you to the Spire. We must warn Gartheniel and assemble the rangers.”
>
He took her face into his hands and stared into her eyes. He had no mental gifts, being a man of purely physical prowess, but she felt his gaze pierce into her. “You removed the blocks didn’t you?”
She looked down and worry built in both his expression and in his mind. “I had to. It was the only way to find you, to save you.”
“What will it do to you, sister?”
“We will talk about it later.” She slipped her hand under his arm and helped him to his feet. For a moment her brother’s legendary stubbornness took ahold of him, but then he nodded and let her lead the way.
“Did you ever sense … it … in him?”
“No,” she went silent for a moment, trying to process the feelings raging through her. “They must have taken him when the two of you were in the outside world. He never let me get close once you returned. He claimed he had ‘moved on’ from me.” She paused, pain pushing her lips up in a wry smile. “Did you know I haven’t even touched him since he’s been back. Not a single hug, no sisterly peck on the cheek, not even the slightest touch on his arm in seven years. He must have known that I would sense it.”
“The temple in Gypt,” Barrendiel said in shock. “The one where we found the Dwellers in the Dark. We were separated for days and … they must have taken him then, made him Prime.”
“He is not Prime, he is something else, something worse.”
Barrendiel opened his mouth and then unsure what to say closed it again. The siblings walked in silence for several long minutes before a cool breeze flowed over them. They rounded a corner and saw the end of the tunnel and the green of the Sward beyond it. As they emerged Barrendiel took a deep breath as if the fresh air would cleanse away the stains in his mind.
“How did he take you?” Sillendriel asked.
“I tracked the Dwellers in the Dark into the catacombs.” She looked at him, a mix of worry and anger. “I know, I should have told someone, but I did not know who to trust. At least one of them is a ranger.”
A look of shock crossed Sillendriel’s face. “Are you sure?”
Barrendiel nodded and she could see regret dig into him. He pushed it away and continued. “I found their temple, the place where you found me.” He paused. “It is ancient. I cannot believe they have been down there all this time, hidden among us. How could they…?”
“Do not try to understand zealotry little brother. There is no logic at work in their madness.”
He nodded, but comfort did not ease the stress in his shoulders. “They were performing a ceremony when Myrthendir, or the creature he has become, arrived. He took control of them and then they came for me. I ran, trying to get the word out, but they caught me and he pushed himself into my mind. He made me forget. I do not remember how many days ago this was. Then he let me go and I lived my life, unaware that he’d placed something inside me, a switch he could turn whenever he wanted.”
Sillendriel did not need her abilities to understand what her brother now feared.
“When he flipped that switch, I was no longer me. I felt like a passenger on a long journey drifting in and out of sleep. Sometimes I remembered the journey, other times I did not. But there were others there with me. He used my Adventure Company perk to control them.”
“The Dwellers?”
Barrendiel nodded as they took the last few steps from the catacombs into the clear dawn sky. The air was crisp and cool and the grass was slick with dew. A slight breeze wafted down from the mountains and flowed through Barrendiel’s hair. His eyes glistened with unshed tears and he turned to Sillendriel.
“Did I…?”
“Even if you did, it was not you, not your fault.” She pulled his head onto her shoulder and he wept. She was unsure how long she’d comforted him when a single horn blast split the morning air. It was a sound not heard in Sylvan Aenor in millennia.
“Dar Thoriim,” Barrendiel said in alarm and they both ran to the Avenue, the long, wide thoroughfare that led from the Deep Water through town and the Sward and all the way to the gates of the Spire. Across the water, as the sun crested the mountains behind them, the towers of Dar Thoriim pushed through the ground, greeting the morning light for the first time in millennia.
A few seconds later another horn blast rumbled from high atop the Spire. All across Sylvan Aenor people ran from doors and rushed to windows. Among them was Gartheniel, the Steward of Sylvan Aenor, who had slept precious few hours these last several days. He arrived at the gates of the Spire just as Barrendiel and Sillendriel reached them.
“Assemble the rangers,” Barrendiel said. “And arm every able-bodied man and woman. We are being called to our great purpose.”
Gartheniel’s eyes flew from Barrendiel to his sister and she nodded. To his credit, Gartheniel asked none of the hundred questions that must have been burning his lips and turned, snapping orders to attendants and guards alike. People scattered making the city ready for war.
“You are in no shape to lead this fight.” Sillendriel said.
“I am the Captain of the Rangers of Sylvan Aenor and I will do my duty.”
Sillendriel stared at her brother, a mixture of fear and pride on her face. She could no more talk her brother from this decision than a tossed pebble could slow a river. She nodded and yelled for a healer. Then she turned back to him. “Well then, I’m going with you.”
Barrendiel opened his mouth to protest and then closed it. “You always were more stubborn than me.”
She looked across the sparkling Deep Water to the dozens of towers poking from the mountain on the far side. She had spent her entire life staring at that mountain, dreading the day when the vision in her mind became a reality. She looked on that vision now.
“What happens today will decide the fate of all the Realms.”
35
Wick watched in horror as the buzzing stream of black fog erupted from his friend’s nose and mouth, leaving him in some kind of zombie state. The snakelike cloud of fog soared upwards, spun and then dove into an odd metal box.
“Gryph?”
The buzzing grew louder and more intense and the black fog surged from the metallic box and flew towards them. On instinct he sent a Chthonic Bolt screaming towards this strange enemy, but the twining tendrils parted and the bolt of crimson energy flew harmlessly past.
It increased speed and dove at them.
The fog reached Ovyrm first, circling his head like a swarm of angry bees before plunging down and into his mouth and nostrils. The xydai’s horrid scream lasted long, agonizing seconds before he went silent. The fog erupted from his mouth, now thinner and less dense. It twined up and into the air and plunged back into the adamantine cube.
“What the hell?” Wick yelled. Without taking his eyes off of Ovyrm Wick bellowed. “Avernerius, kill Myrthendir!”
The abyssal terror activated his sword of magma and ran towards the Prince Regent. He was barely halfway to the control panel when several dozen arachnids fired webbing at the monstrous chthonic demon. The first several stands didn’t even slow the beast down, but then ten, twenty, a hundred of the sticky ropes took hold and the demon slowed to a crawl.
The fiery beast swung its claymore and several dozen of the automatons melted and exploded. Then a hundred more strands wrapped up Avernerius’ sword arm and held it fast. The demon tried to pull away the sticky substance with its free hand, but only trapped that hand as well. The arachnids cocooned the demon and pulled it from its feet. Had Wick been a man of Earth instead of a gnome of the Realms, a vision of Gulliver versus the Lilliputians would have filled his mind.
