by C. M. Carney
“Kill him,” Myrthendir said to Ovyrm and Tifala who were stripping off their chains now that Gryph’s spell had faded. Ovyrm took aim with his bow and sunk an arrow into the warborn’s shoulder. The shock and the pain caused Errat to lurch forward where he lost his footing and disappeared into the violent current.
Myrthendir walked up to Ovrym and backhanded him. “You did that on purpose.” The xydai fell to his knees and stared up at the elf lord with a slight grin, his yellow eyes momentarily clear. Myrthendir scowled and closed his fist and more of the black fog soared down and into Ovyrm. The xydai’s grin faded, his eyes became black once more and the sedate expression of obedience returned.
Rage battled reason on Myrthendir’s face for several moments before a wicked smiled curved his lips and he looked from Tifala to Ovyrm. “There is always time for those who are patient.” He grabbed Ovyrm by the chin. “And I’ll make you take ten lives for each of theirs and force her to kill her beloved, if he still lives.”
Myrthendir turned his back on them and then a deep rumble announced the lowering of a massive ramp downward. “Time to say hello to the people of Sylvan Aenor.”
36
Gryph’s shoulder slammed against the wall of the tunnel as the water plummeted downwards blanketing him in darkness. He scrambled to right himself but each buffet against the pipe not only lowered his health by a small fraction but also made knowing which direction he faced impossible.
I need to get to Wick before he drowns. He grabbed the rope and ordered it to pull him towards the gnome, but the current fought the motive power of the rope. His friend's weight resisted and Gryph pulled, drawing Wick closer.
Gryph’s hand grabbed Wick’s ankle and drew him close. He reached for his friend’s face and cast Halo of Air. A breathable bubble expanded around Wick’s head. Gryph tried to push his own face into the halo but found the resistance too powerful.
Figures, Gryph thought and cast the spell again. His fingers were halfway through the gestures required to summon the halo when his head smacked against the side of the tunnel. The mana building around his hand flared and punched back into him like an electric shock.
Debuff Added: Mana Feedback
You are distracted during casting and your spell has failed. You are the victim of mana feedback. 1 point of damage per mana point required to cast failed spell. You cannot cast spells until the Debuff clears.
Damage: 30
Duration: 2 minutes (4 seconds per point of mana required to cast failed spell)
Debuff Added: You are drowning; 5 points of damage per second.
Fuck me, Gryph thought as an acidic burn built in his tortured lungs and the furious prompt filled his vision. He swirled and spun, struggling against the current, impressed that the prompt remained in focus. Wouldn’t not want to know I was drowning, again.
Gryph was going to die, but perhaps he could shield his friend from the violence inflicted by smashing into the walls of the tunnel. He wrapped his arms and legs around the gnome’s small body. Light sparked in his vision and it took a moment to realize it came from ahead and were not calling cards of his imminent death sparking behind his eyes.
Gryph squinted and saw a massive turbine churning at the water, proving his suspicion about the purpose of the massive waterway. The water is powering the city. He suspected the machine, that was likely to cut him in half before he could drown, generated the power that had opened the doors concealing the warborn army. Maybe we’ll muck up the gears enough to slam the doors shut on them. And maybe that asshole Myrthendir will get crushed to death.
It was a fantasy born of desperation and oxygen deprivation, but it was still fun to consider. Their speed increased as the tunnel narrowed, providing more pressure and therefore more power to the turbines. Gryph spun, using his own body to shield Wick from the spinning fan like blades of the turbine. If they were lucky, it wouldn’t chop them both in half.
Gryph’s chest wanted to explode and he looked down on his small friend for the last time. Wick’s eyes were shut and the wound in his chest was a vicious hole, trailing a steady stream of purple blood behind them. The sight of his friend’s odd physical changes, and Gryph’s total ignorance of the reasons for them, made the whole situation so much worse. I am sorry Wick. Gryph was tired and wanted to close his eyes. He let his burning lungs release and a cascade of bubbles flowed around his head. Just before he lost consciousness he imagined that a strong hand grabbed his ankle.
The world faded to black.
Gryph was coughing. Pain raked through his lungs as he gasped for desperate breaths. A large hand smacked him none too gently on the back and a torrent of water vomited from him.
“Easy, breathe easy,” a familiar voice said kindly. “I’ve got you.”
Gryph inhaled once, twice, three times and the pain faded. He looked up to see Errat supporting him. Deep cuts scored the warborn's body and Gryph realized Errat had shielded them from the turbine with his own body. He did say his bones are steel.
“Wick?” Gryph said in a hoarse voice he could barely hear over the sound of churning water.
The giant warborn hung his head and shook his head no and moved aside. Wick lay on his back, his blank eyes staring at the ceiling. A shallow pool of water stained by rivulets of blood spread from Wick’s body, and Gryph knew the truth. Wick, his friend, was dead.
“No, no, no,” Gryph howled and rushed to the gnome’s side. I cannot lose another. He grabbed the gnome and shook him, hoping this was a sick gnomish joke, but the fist-sized hole in Wick’s chest forced him to see the truth.
Gryph rocked back and forth cradling Wick’s head in his lap, and for the briefest of moments he was back in the bitter cold mountains of northern Korea, cradling another fallen comrade. That day he had been powerless to save his friend, but here in the Realms things were different. Here the man named Gryph had the power to change people’s fates.
“Lay him down and hold him,” Gryph said to Errat. The warborn gave him a confused look but did as asked.
Gryph turned his gaze inward. The Godhead hovering just out of his normal perception in the space between his third eye and his soul. He barely understood the Divine Artifact, but with it he possessed near infinite potential. Gryph focused on the glowing center of the Godhead and opened the artifact’s interface and toggled the Godhead perks.
Inspire: This perk enables the god to Inspire his followers. Once a day the bearer of a Godhead may Inspire all of his followers. Inspire gives followers +5 to all Attributes, +50 to all Stats and +25% to all Regenerations for one hour. Followers are those who select you as their deity.
Imbue: This perk enables the god to empower the weapon of a follower with incredible power. Once a day the god can imbue an item, temporarily turning it into an artifact level magical item for 24 hours. The artifact is determined by those that the deity has owned, used or encountered. The bearer of the artifact must be a follower of the god.
Assimilation: Once a week, a god can Assimilate a skill from a defeated opponent. The skill becomes a permanent part of the god’s skill set. The level gained is equal to ⅓ of the opponent’s skill level. For example, if the bearer of a Godhead defeats a wizard with level 60 in Fire Magic, he will reach level 20 in fire magic.
Resurrect: Once a week a god can return a fallen follower to life for 24 hours.
He had a single Divine Perk Point to spend. The ultra-rare resource was earned when his Godhead leveled to a new tier. He had wisely saved the second one he’d received until he had a better understanding of how to spend it. He’d used his first point to purchase the Assimilation perk and its value had already served him well.
Now there was only one option for his other perk point. He toggled the Resurrect perk and rage pushed into him at the cruelty. Sure the perk would bring Wick back from the dead, but only for a day. What would happen then? Would he die the same way he had the first time? Would there be pain or would he just fade away to nothingness? Was it a cruelty he could inflic
t on his friend? On Tifala?
Gryph looked at Errat, seeking something in the massive stoic’s demeanor that could help him decide. “Do I have the right?” Gryph asked aloud.
Errat sat as serene as the Dalai Lama and as expectant as a loyal Labrador retriever. He blinked a few times as if he were an ancient computer processing the age-old questions of human existence. After several moments he spoke. “He would want to say goodbye.”
Relief battled fear inside Gryph. Could the warborn see his thoughts? He claimed not to be a thought magician, but he seemed to have insights that confounded logic and common sense. Can I trust him? He pushed the suspicions aside. Now was not the time, and Errat was right. Given the choice, Wick would trade knowing when he would die for another day of life and the chance to save the woman he loved.
Gryph selected Resurrect and closed out his Godhead interface. A brilliant light expanded into his vision and passed like a healing wave of warmth through his body, lighting every molecule, every atom, every mote of who he was, had been and would be, afire with holy light. He was one with all the Realms, both a part of the whole and nothing. A voice rose unbidden from deep within this nexus of possibility. I am a god. He realized that the voice was his own even though he had not spoken.
As quickly as it had risen, the light faded and Gryph was back in the cold, damp chamber deep in the earth, cradling the head of his dead friend. He reached out, hand tentative and shaking and touched Wick on the brow. Words came unbidden to him and he filled with holy fire once again.
“I am Gryph, god of the Realms, and I command the thirteen spheres to heed my call and return life to this man Dinkwick Flintspanner.”
A rush of heat flowed down one arm and a trickle of water down the other. The soles of his feet were grounded and steady while his legs became airy and light. His eyes burned with empyrean light while the crimson smoke of the nether realm flowed across his fingertips. His heart pulsed with the green light of the living before the crushing darkness of death gripped it hard. Endless thoughts flitted through his mind as his body floated in the aether. The atoms and molecules of his being rearranged into orderly patterns only to be twisted and given freedom by the chaotic strands of all possibilities. Finally, his third eye blazed silver and tendrils of his soul erupted forth, drawing the others into itself before surging down into Wick.
Gryph fell forward onto his friend, gasping for breath. Sweat poured from him and was quickly carried away by a chill that came not from the room, but from the sudden loss of something he had no words for.
His heart thundered from exertion and anticipation, but Wick lay unmoving below him. Loss dug into him as his mind and soul realized just how foolish he had been. Of course, death was final. He was no god, despite the unbidden arrogance that had flowed through him as he’d used Resurrect.
Then Wick lurched up, spewing out water, blood and bits of his last meal. His eyes opened and his hands gripped onto Gryph’s arms in a panic. “What the…..?” His eyes locked onto Gryph’s and his mouth moved, but he could not form his thoughts into words.
“It’s okay, take it easy.”
“I was…”
“Dead… yes.”
Wick tore open his shirt and found not a ragged and bloody hole, but healthy dark purple skin.
“How?”
“The Godhead. I purchased a Divine Perk called Resurrect. But there’s something you need to…”
“Where is Tifala?”
Gryph hung his head. “Myrthendir has her. The black fog has her.”
“No. Please. Why didn’t he take me?”
“He tried. Tifala somehow cleansed you as it took her.”
“Of course, she did,” Wick said and tried to stand, but his recently dead muscles seized and he collapsed into Gryph’s arms.
“Woah, are you okay?”
“No, I’m not okay. You told me I died, you brought me back and the love of my life is missing. I am far from okay.”
“There’s something else you must know.”
“There’s more?” Wick eyed him with a mixture of fear and ready to boil over rage.
“You only have a day.”
“Until what?”
“Until Resurrect wears off.”
“What happens then?”
“I’m not sure. It’s not like I’ve done this before.”
The look of shock and fear on the gnome’s face turned to livid anger. “I’m going to die, again?”
Gryph nodded.
“Then why?”
Gryph hung his head, knowing Wick was right. This was a cruelty that nobody should have to face. But the Realms were bigger than either Wick or Gryph. He looked up and into Wick’s eyes, that now bore spots of yellow mixed into his natural brown. “I cannot stop Myrthendir alone. I need help if we are to save Tifala and Ovyrm.”
Wick pulled back and punched Gryph as hard as he could, but his recently deceased muscles were like jello and the blow hit Gryph in the breastplate. Wick grabbed his hand in pain and anger. “Dammit, I was aiming for your head.”
Gryph kneeled, offering himself up to Wick. The gnome pulled his fist back again and paused. “I can’t believe I’m going to die again.” He dropped his fist to his lap and looked at Gryph. “Promise me one thing.”
"Anything."
“You cannot let her watch me die.”
Gryph hesitated for a moment before nodding.
“I also swear,” Errat said and both Gryph and Wick jumped.
“Ganneth! Where the hell did you come from?”
“The Crucible,” Errat said after a moment’s confusion.
“The what?” Wick asked, already annoyed at the massive warborn.
“You asked where I came from. I was born in the Crucible.”
“And what the hell is that?” Wick asked.
“An artifact of great power. It helped my father bestow life upon me.”
Wick stared for a moment, mouth dropping open and then closing, unsure how to respond to the warborn’s origin tale. “Anyone else have any useless origin tales to tell. I don’t have all day?”
“No, he might be onto something,” Gryph said and the tall and short men looked at him. “Can this Crucible save Wick?”
Wick’s eyes went wide and then snapped to Errat, desperate for some good news.
“I believe so.”
“Where is it?”
“At the top of the Artificer’s tower.”
“And where is that?” Wick said annoyed.
Errat turned and pointed up and behind them. “That way.”
A flash of hope filled Wick’s eyes.
“And where is the entrance to the city?” Gryph asked.
“Without the port circles being active it is several hours that way.” The large warborn pointed in the opposite direction.
“Can we reactivate the port circles?” Wick asked.
“If we had the seal and the time.”
“We have neither,” Gryph said and looked at Wick, knowing what decision must be made, but giving the gnome the chance to make it. After several moments Wick looked up, placed a hand on Errat’s arm and another on Gryph’s.
“Help me save Tif.”
37
The warborn marched to the thundering sound of ten thousand feet. Most wore mail of plate and chain and most bore swords, axes or hammers, while others were ranged specialists who carried bows or arbalests. An honor guard of ten carried and protected the indestructible cube that housed the black fog.
