by C. M. Carney
Dirge looked at Gryph, searching for judgment, but an even larger smile crossed Gryph’s face.
“I’m starting to like you Dirge.”
“Watch out for that. I’m a rogue who can't be trusted. Say, you don’t happen to have a sister, do you?”
Gryph choked on his beer and while thoughts of worry turned to Brynn, he found that he was enjoying himself for the first time since he’d entered the Realms.
“Get me out of here and maybe I’ll make an introduction,” Gryph said.
“I think this will be the beginning of a beautiful friendship, Sir Elf.” Dirge hoisted his gourd in salute. Gryph did the same.
“You bastards,” came a voice swimming in the deep depths of inebriation. Both men turned to see Wick stumble into the tent. The empty wineskin dangled from his hand as he stumbled. Bleary, red eyes stared out from underneath the gnome’s acid shorn frock of lightning blue hair.
Gryph had to stifle a laugh. Wick looked like an angry drunk toddler whose big sister had tried to “pretty him up” and failed. Dirge felt no need to hold in his laugh, earning the immediate ire of the angry little man.
“Fridckkfr Yuuf” Wick mumbled. Gryph’s Gift of Tongues failed to translate the gibberish, but Dirge and Gryph still took the meaning. Wick strained to focus on the wiry man and dark purple chthonic energy pulsed and dissipated in his eyes. Dirge’s demeanor instantly shifted.
Gryph jumped to his feet, nearly falling over. Damn this horrid root beer was strong. Gryph rushed up to Wick and kneeled in front of him. He forced the diminutive man to turn towards him.
“Wick. We will find her. We will save her.”
Rage and doubt and fear battled on the gnome’s face and finally the fear won. Tears poured from his eyes as the magic faded. “Promise?”
Gryph held out his pinky. For a moment Wick just stared before finally grasping the extended finger with his own pinky. The bond sealed, Wick stumbled back out of the tent.
“I.. Sleep,” the gnome mumbled and pushed past the flap of the tent. Gryph eased the flap open to watch as his friend weaved his way through the camp. He bumped into an old chest and then into a burly man who pushed him none too gently.
Gryph felt Dirge come up next to him. “Is he going to be a problem?”
“No,” Gryph said, never taking his eyes off of Wick.
His friend walked past a small cage and a tiny, three-fingered red talon lashed put and tripped the gnome. Wick stumbled and fell, face planting onto the hard packed dirt of the cavern floor. The imp’s laughter followed. “Fall on face, go boom,” Xeg grumbled and then spat on Wick.
The gnome stumbled to his feet and kicked the cage. A yelp of anger piped up from inside the cage and Wick flipped the small demon off before stumbling towards a dilapidated old rope ladder that clung to the wall of the cavern.
Gryph watched with apprehension as his small, drunk friend climbed the ladder. After several anxious moments and a few close calls the gnome made it to a small alcove carved into the rock of the cavern wall. There he plopped down and pulled a ragged set of old blankets over him.
“He’ll sleep it off,” Gryph said. “I think I’ll do the same.” Gryph hoisted his gourd to Dirge, drained the last bit rancid liquid and walked off with a stumble. The cold eyes of Dirge followed him every step and then an even colder grin crossed the wiry Aegytpian’s face.
40
G ryph felt the tiny prick and his eyes snapped open. Dirge stood above him, grinning down on him like some maniacal circus clown. The thief wiggled his finger, taunting Gryph with the poison-filled thimble. Gryph moved his hands through the gestures to cast Flying Stalactite. His arm grew heavy as the power of earth magic flowed through him. The stalactite flew from his hand, but his aim was off and it sailed past Dirge’s head to impact against the wall with the thud of stone on stone.
Gryph’s hand flopped uselessly to his side. Dirge mounted him with ease, straddling Gryph like he was a prize-breeding stud.
“Well that was rude,” Dirge said and punched Gryph in the face. The blow hurt his pride more than his body as only a small fraction of his red health bar disappeared. The pain faded as his body became numb.
“Hello pally. Did you sleep well?”
Gryph attempted to tell the wiry man to screw off, but he could not speak. What came out was a pathetic moan of droll and gibberish.
“So, as you may have figured out, I’ve reneged on our deal. His decrepit majesty the Barrow King has offered me a better one. My freedom from this hellhole in exchange for you.”
Gryph mumbled again and Dirge feigned shock and irritation.
“Did he just tell me to screw off?” Dirge asked turning to one of the burly men that stood behind him.
“Sounded more like fuck off to me,” said the giant goon.
Dirge looked to the other man. “What do you think?”
“No idea, but it didn’t sound friendly.”
“No, no it did not,” Dirge said and punched Gryph again. “You should behave Sir Elf. It’ll go much easier for you.”
Gryph grumbled more nonsense insults.
“Or we can do it the fun way.” Dirge punched him once, twice, three more times. Each shot barely doing any damage. With each punch the Aegytptian’s faux calm faded and Gryph could see the psychotic anger the small man otherwise masked so well. Dirge leaned in and whispered into Gryph’s ear.
“I so wish Ovy hadn’t told you about our falling out. I could have maybe worked with you, but I don’t think the rest of the crew would take kindly to discovering the truth. Foolish of them really. Do they think that we’re allowed to stay here without cost? The Barrow King may be weaker than he once was, but he could still wipe us out. What’s the life of one man each month compared to the lives of all of us?”
“Ovyrm just couldn’t see the wisdom of it and he wasn’t willing to make the sacrifice when it was his turn. Sure, I may have cheated a tad. Rigged the game to get rid of him.” Dirge rubbed the scar on his face. “It would have been so much easier if he’d just gone quietly.”
Gryph’s focus locked on the debuff cooldown. Dirge was a talker. Maybe, just maybe, he’d keep blathering long enough to give Gryph a chance. Gryph mumbled and drooled, but nothing intelligible came out.
“You know I just can’t understand you. It’s as if somebody injected you with a paralytic. Oh wait, that was me.” Dirge chuckled at his own jest. He punched Gryph once more and hopped up. He sauntered almost casually around the room, puffed up with the bravado and cockiness only small men can muster. He nodded to the two goons, and they tied Gryph. Gryph tried to struggle, but his body refused to respond.
“We will play a little game called Truth or Slice,” he said as he pulled both daggers from their hilts and spun them artfully. He sat back on Gryph’s chest and placed his blade a mere inch from Gryph’s left eye. “Now, lets’s play.”
“Why does the Barrow King want you so badly? He insisted that I bring you to him alive.”
Gryph again mumbled something that may have been a suggestion about inserting vegetables somewhere they weren’t meant to go.
“Oh tease of teases. I so wish there was time for that,” Dirge said and brought his knife closer to Gryph’s eye. “But, unfortunately time is not on our side. More on mine than yours, but we all have deadlines to keep. Speak.”
The knife tip was so close to Gryph’s eyes that he could no longer focus on it. Even paralyzed by Dirge’s sting, Gryph put immense effort into remaining still. Dirge had the steadiest hands he’d ever seen, but he trusted neither the thief, nor himself at this moment.
Seeing that he’d made his point, Dirge pulled back a fraction of a hair. Gryph blinked and a muffled “I don’t know” chortled from his throat.
“You know what, I believe you. Too bad.” Dirge eased back, flipped his daggers around and sheathed them as graceful as a dancer. He spun off of Gryph and nodded to his two burly companions. “Toss him in a sack. It’s time to go.”
Gryph w
as gagged, hoisted up and tossed into a rough spun sack that could use some serious laundering. It smelled of sweat, vomit and old blood. Gryph knew that he wasn’t the first person to face the end of his days in this bag. He tried to struggle with his bonds, but his body refused to obey commands.
One brute tossed him over a shoulder, and they left the tent. The brute adjusted Gryph’s weight several times as they walked, seeking the most comfortable position to carry his hogtied prisoner. The movement pushed Gryph’s face up flush against a small hole in the sack’s thin, scratchy surface. He could now see a small jagged part of the world.
They stopped and Gryph could see Dirge staring upwards. It was amazing what details the human mind could extrapolate from the tiniest bits of information. The other brute nocked an arrow and drew the bowstring. The upward trajectory of his shot, combined with their location meant there could only be one target. He was aiming at the place where Wick had climbed to sleep.
With a low twang the arrow zipped and Gryph heard the sound of the arrow impact the mound of blankets. The brute knocked and fired again and was rewarded with another thump.
The group snuck towards the old well they’d tossed Ovyrm down. He saw Dirge nod to the hooded guard that sat in the shadows near the well. Then he looked down with a grin and spat. The rogue nodded to the bow-carrying brute again and two more quick twangs ended a life. Dirge nodded to the hooded guard, who returned the gesture. In silence they moved through the camp and entered a tunnel that descended deeper into the Barrow.
41
G ryph woke with a start. He didn't know how long he’d been out. It could be seconds or days. The steady, even steps of the brute that carried him nearly lulled him to sleep again, but he forced himself to stay awake.
From what he could see, they were walking down a wide corridor, lined with green flames that burned directly from the sconces set into the wall. He didn’t see any torches nor smell burning. This was magic.
He felt the brute carrying him tense up and then heard Dirge’s voice. “Easy.” Gryph could tell by the strain lingering under the surface of Dirge’s voice that he was far from calm. Then he saw why.
Spaced midway between two points of green light was a vertical alcove set back into the wall. Standing inside was an armored corpse, the skin of its face pulled tight across its teeth giving it a feral grin. It held a massive two-handed sword point faced down. The creature’s black eyes snapped open and watched as the party moved past, but otherwise it did not move a muscle.
Though Gryph couldn’t move his Analyze skill still worked just fine. He almost wished it hadn’t.
Dread Knight. Level 22 - H:350/S:420/M:0/SP:250 - Dread Knights are powerful undead revenants. In life they were knights who served evil masters and were rewarded with an eternal half-life of the undead. They are powerful warrior priests who derive their spirit power from the masters who they worship as a god. Strengths: Unknown. Immunities: Unknown. Weakness: Unknown.
The undead creature was high level and formidable and as they drifted down the hallway, Gryph saw that it wasn’t alone. He saw four more on his side and assumed that the same number lay ensconced on the other side of the corridor.
This is a bad plan, Gryph thought.
They walked a few more feet before stopping. Gryph could not see why they had stopped, but the chill of evil crept into his bones. Dirge cleared his throat attempting to force courage into it.
“Let us pass. We are here at your master’s invite.”
The chill expanded and bit into Gryph’s cramped muscles and he was certain that this his life would end, again. Then he heard Dirge exhale. A scrape of metal on stone followed as the sound of massive doors creaking on ancient hinges came to Gryph.
The party moved in and Gryph saw the doors they passed through. They were 20 feet tall and emblazoned with scenes of death and battle. As they crossed the threshold, the creaking began again, and the doors sealed with a thud.
The brute carrying him shook in fear, but he walked forward on Dirge’s command. A few moments later they stopped again and tossed Gryph to the ground.
An oily hiss crept over the party and Gryph heard Dirge say. “Easy.” The brute mumbled an apology and propped Gryph up on his knees and pulled off the sack.
Gryph blinked a few times to the fog from his mind. As his eyes focused, a horror came into his field of vision. Sitting on a throne made of bone was a spectre of rancid fog and malevolent darkness. Glowing embers of green fire peered at him from behind a cowl of animated smoke. A gnarled hand that was neither bone nor flesh clasped emerged from the ever-flowing robe that the creature didn’t so much wear as exude.
Without meaning to Gryph’s Analyze skill jumped to the fore.
Barrow King - Level: 67 –
H: 1,245/S:1,578/M:1,574/SP:0 The Barrow King is the disembodied soul of an ancient wizard. It is a Legendary Opponent whose skill with magic is near unparalleled Strengths: Unknown. Immunities: Unknown. Weakness: Unknown.
Fear dug deep into the core of Gryph’s being. He felt tendons seize and his blood turn cold. Bones felt as if they were splintering under the gaze and his muscles seized. His eyes could not focus on the foul creature as if it was phasing in and out of existence. With incredible effort, Gryph forced himself to break eye contact. Instantly the phantom pain brought on by the creature’s gaze abated.
The Barrow King leaned forward and a guttural grumbling flowed across the room. “Who are you?” said a voice of cracking stone and burning oil.
“Before we get to that,” Dirge said. “I believe you owe us payment.”
The spectre’s eyes snapped up to Dirge. To his credit the rogue barely shivered, one foot easing back a bare millimeter. The Barrow King bored into Dirge’s soul, but the man stood his ground.
It’s too bad he’s proven to be an enemy, Gryph thought, impressed with the traitorous man’s courage.
The Barrow King made the slightest motion and two of the dread knight’s moved towards Gryph and Dirge. The two brutes tensed in uncertainty and fear, clutching weapons in suddenly slick hands.
Dirge never took his eyes off the Barrow King as he pulled a dagger from its sheath and spun it lightning quickl. Gryph felt the tip bite into his neck. The point pulsed with each beat of his heart.
“There’s no need for that,” Dirge said with an eerie calm. “We can both get what we want and part as friends.” The Barrow King snapped its head in an almost insectile manner, a sure sign of anger. “Or as temporary chums who never have to see each other again.”
Another deep rumble emanated from the very stone of the throne room. Gryph looked around as much as he was able without skewering himself. The room was massive. Along the sides were balconies that Gryph imagined at one time, when the Barrow King had still been living, had held supplicants and underlings. Now, Gryph just hoped that the ancient stone held and did not come crashing down on him.
Gryph felt the tip of the knife push harder against his jugular and his gaze snapped back to the Barrow King. The rail thin creatures shoulders moved up and down as if the Barrow King were breathing to calm itself. But, Gryph knew, this creature had not taken a breath in millennia. What kind of terrible will kept this creature alive?
After a few tense moments the Barrow King waved his hand in an idle backwards motion at an intricately carved stone archway to his right. A point of light came into being in the center of the arch, a singularity of all and nothing. It pulsed and then expanded into a five foot circle to another place.
Gryph’s heart both leapt and sank at the vision through the portal. It was a verdant valley. Sun streamed down through the branches of dappled trees and he could hear the singsong of birds. Gryph had not realized just how detached from nature and life he had felt since arriving in the Realms. If the place beyond the singularity was real, then perhaps the Realms held some good after all.
Dirge yanked Gryph’s head back, adjusting his blade again. “Now call of your goons and you’ll have what you want.”
<
br /> The Barrow King stood, a flowing motion more serpentine than mammalian. As he flowed upwards, Gryph realized just how tall the creature was. It topped seven feet, and it flexed its shoulders backwards expanding before their eyes. It took a step forward on heavy booted feet, that had until a moment ago, not existed.
“Eh, eh,” Dirge warned and Gryph felt the knife pierce his skin. Blood flowed in a rivulet down Gryph’s neck.
The Barrow King paused and sniffed. A keening noise, akin to the desperate hungry cry of a bird rose from inside the Barrow King’s ever flowing shawl. Gryph sensed a craving like a junky smelling his next fix cooking.
Tense moments passed and after a glacial age the Barrow King waved his hand again. The dread knights backed away, clearing a path for Dirge and his buddies to move towards the portal.
Dirge dragged Gryph to his feet and slowly moved towards the shimmering gateway. With each small step he repositioned himself, always keeping Gryph between him and the Barrow King. The two brutes took up flanking positions, weapons at the ready, eyes on the dread knights.
Gryph flexed his fingers, working feeling back into them. “Now or never," he thought.
Now, came a mental reply.
Chaos erupted.
42
B ack in the cave where Wick had recovered from the black ooze, Gryph laid out his plan. According to Ovrym, Dirge was the leader of the Grey Company, a group of mercenaries, thieves and killers. Ovyrm had taken up with them while searching for his one time mentor, Zyrrin.
“Zyrrin was searching for a Godhead. He had found an ancient text that suggested one existed on Korynn, left unclaimed. I didn’t believe it. Godheads were mere legends. And coming to Korynn violated the Accords. The Outer Realms may not interfere with this Realm. So, by joining him I sealed my fate.”
