by C. M. Carney
How can I trust in the vision she showed me? How can I trust her? Gryph looked up at Sillendriel once again. He wanted to cast Telepathic Bond so he could communicate with her, get her to offer him some assurance, some proof, but he suspected the guards would see any attempt to cast a spell as an attack. Instead he stared into her eyes imploring.
Her eyes were glazed, and she gave him a wan smile. She’s sedated, Gryph realized. I am on my own. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and searched his memories of his time in the Soul Reverie. He'd seen himself as the Stone King. He'd felt himself as Prime, and he knew the devastation the eggs would bring to Korynn if they matured.
It went against all logic and sense and every mote of his soul wanted to comply, to save his friends’ lives, but deep down where the real truths lay hidden Gryph knew what he had seen had been the truth. He opened his eyes and stared into Myrthendir’s eyes.
“I am sorry, but I cannot.”
Myrthendir’s jaw twitched as he tried to control his anger. “Captain,” he said over his shoulder and the armor-clad Captain of the Palace Guard came up behind him rigid and at attention. “Take the gnome summoner and execute him on my order.”
“Yes, My Lord,” the Captain of the Guard said, and he snapped fingers at two of his men.
The guards marched forward and grabbed Wick, tearing him away from Tifala’s grasp. Tifala’s scream tore at Gryph’s soul and then her direct pleadings to him stabbed deep into his heart. “Gryph, please,” she begged.
The guards pushed Wick to his knees and one placed the tip of his spear at the nape of the shaking gnome’s neck. Gryph wanted to launch himself at the guards, but he forced himself to stay rigid.
“Please don’t do this,” Gryph begged the Prince Regent. “The eggs are safest with me. I have seen what the Prime will do. If the eggs are taken from this bag by any hands but my own, the future will be a place of darkness and pain.” Gryph’s eyes flashed to the elf maiden’s and then back to the Prince Regent.
“You have seen?” Myrthendir asked and then turned towards Sillendriel. “Or you have been shown?” The look in Gryph’s eyes gave the tall elf the answer he needed. “Beware visions and portents, my friend, they have a way of being misinterpreted.” He turned away from Gryph. “Captain, on my command.”
“Ready,” the Captain of the Guard bellowed and Wick tensed as he felt the tip of his executioner’s spear find its mark against his neck.
“Gryph please,” Tifala begged in a voice that like her spirit had broken.
Gryph forced himself to look her in the eyes and the same tears flowed from his as hers. “I’m sorry, but I cannot.”
“Captain…” Myrthendir began and tension lay heavy in the air.
Ovyrm’s gaze burned into him and Tifala's gasp of pain punched him in his heart, but it was Wick’s calm voice that broke the silence hovering like the stale hot air of a humid midsummer day.
“It’s okay Tif, I will find you in the next life. Together forever.”
Tifala surged towards her love, but Ovyrm’s strong hands held her. “No, no, no,” she said, her voice broken and low.
As the Prince Regent brought his hand down a single word formed in his mouth, but then a thunderous command split the air.
“Hold!” the Steward yelled in a booming voice. “And lower your weapon.”
The captain pulled his spear from the back of Wick’s neck and slammed the butt onto the marble floor with a thud.
Myrthendir turned on the Steward in a fury. “How dare you countermand my order. I am Regent now.”
“You are not, not yet,” the Steward said in a calm, almost warm voice and placed a hand on the tall elf’s shoulder. “We have yet to sit Gyr Thera, the Wait. You will not be Regent for a week, not until your father is put to rest and your fury and anger has faded.”
“A foolish law,” Myrthendir spat.
“But the law nonetheless My Lord. And we do not execute anyone until their guilt has been proven. We are not the Dark Ascendancy.”
The Prince Regent shook as his despair and anger took ahold of him. The Steward held him as the passions tore through the tall elf. Gryph felt his pain as did everyone else in the room.
The Steward looked at Gryph, his face grim. “The eggs are not our primary concern at this moment, and Gryph is right. There is no safer place for the arboleth eggs than with him. For the moment, we have larger concerns.” The Steward put a hand to Myrthendir’s shoulder. “My heart is torn asunder at the idea that Barrendiel could have done this, but all evidence points to his guilt,” the Steward said. “He has the Seal and he will use it. He will open the Lost City. You know this to be true.”
Myrthendir hung his head and let his despair flow through him and then stood tall. “Then I will go after him.”
“Your place is here. You are Regent now,” the Steward said.
A smug grin crossed Myrthendir’s face. “Not yet. By your own words and the ancient law, I am not Regent … yet.” The Steward hung his head with a sigh, knowing his Prince spoke truthfully. Myrthendir turned to the gathered crowd. “I do not understand what darkness has seeped into my brother Barrendiel’s soul, but I will stop him, no matter the cost.”
He looked at Gryph. “I will also not endanger the lives of my people by taking them into the forbidden city, so I offer you a choice. Fight alongside me, all of you, and I will grant you your freedom. Refuse and you will face punishment for your crimes.”
You have been offered the Quest A Beacon in the Darkness.
Myrthendir, Prince Regent of Sylvan Aenor has asked you to aid him in stopping his cousin Barrendiel from unleashing a terrible horror on his people and the Realms at large. You are to journey into the heart of the ancient Thalmiir city Dar Thoriim and secure the weapon it contains before the traitor Barrendiel can get his hands upon it.
Difficulty: Extreme
Rewards: The safety of the Realms and increased Reputation with Myrthendir and the people of Sylvan Aenor. And other unknown rewards.
Price of Refusal/Failure: You will face punishment for your crimes.
XP: 500,000
Do You Accept?: YES?/NO?
Gryph glanced at his friends. Wick ignored him. Tifala’s eyes seemed to say ‘better or worse we are in this together.’ Ovyrm gave a simple, barely noticeable nod. It’s the best I will get and I am lucky they have given me this much, Gryph thought. He turned to Myrthendir and stepped forward.
“We will fight alongside you with all our abilities and all our honor.”
Myrthendir stared at Gryph for a long moment, his eyes boring into Gryph’s as if he were trying to read his mind, or his soul. After a long moment Myrthendir nodded. He turned to Gartheniel and put a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, my old friend.”
The Steward nodded. “If you are going to do this, I have one requirement,” the Steward said, warmly but firmly. Myrthendir looked at the smaller half elf and then nodded.
“You will all wear Rings of Binding Fellowship and be bound by their power.”
12
The Prince Regent’s expression told Gryph that he was about to argue the Steward’s request, but then it eased and he nodded. “As you wish.” The mood in the throne room relaxed, and the tension eased like the string of a drawn bow when a battle is avoided. Without another word Myrthendir strode down the steps of the dais and passed by Gryph.
“Come with me,” the tall elf said. The Steward held out a hand, indicating Gryph and his friends should go first. One by one they followed, leaving Gryph standing next to Gartheniel. As Gryph went to follow a firm hand held his left forearm. Gryph looked from the hand to the Steward’s face. The man’s expression was firm, unyielding and gave no trace of the emotions contained inside him. Once the others were out of earshot the Steward turned to Gryph.
“Be true to the vows you are about to make, man from another place. If you betray them and survive, you will face me.” The Steward looked up into Gryph’s eyes and he was no longer a simple admi
nistrator, but something much more fearsome, and much deadlier.
“My word is my bond,” Gryph said. After a few tense heartbeats the Steward nodded and held out his hand, indicating Gryph should follow the others.
They walked through several passageways and down several stairs, arriving at a room that Gryph realized was an armory both odd and wondrous. Gryph's gear lay on a nearby table, armor repaired and weapons tended to.
A stocky elf was handing out equipment to the others. Ovyrm only took a few bundles of arrows. Gryph knew the power of the xydai’s weapon and armor, so was not surprised. Tifala graciously accepted a pair of curved daggers after the smith revealed they channeled life magic. Wick stood in front of an older elf woman. She held his staff and a glow of pure mana flowed from her hands into the length of gnarled black wood.
“I’ve made a few improvements,” the elf woman said and handed the staff back to Wick. She looked up at Myrthendir and Gryph and motioned them to come to her.
“Good morning Yrriel, this is the player I’m sure you’ve heard about.”
The elf woman held out her hand to Gryph and after a momentary confusion, Gryph took it, wondering for the briefest of moments if she expected him to kiss it. He felt a flush move through his face as the thought pulsed through his mind, and Yrriel smiled a knowing smile.
“Well met, Gryph the player,” Yrriel said and then turned to Myrthendir. “I am so sorry for your loss Myr. Your father was a great man. He and I … knew each other well. Words cannot do your loss justice.”
“Thank you Yrriel. He always spoke highly of you.”
Gryph wondered at both the elf woman’s use of a familiar nickname for the Prince Regent and her comment about ‘knowing’ Lassendir well. Perhaps these High Elves aren’t as stodgy as they appear. Yrriel sent a sideways glance at Gryph and he saw a small smirk turn the corner of her mouth. Once again he felt a blush redden his cheeks. Then it faded, and she was all business. “What have you brought me?”
Myrthendir nodded at Gryph and he placed the War Stave of the El’Edryn King on the work table in front of her.
“Is that what I think it is?” she said eyes widening as Gryph laid the spear on the workbench in front of her. “By the Ancients,” she said, her hand hovering over the length of the shaft reverently. “How did you come by this?”
“The Barrow,” Gryph said, an unexpected surge of pride bubbling up inside him.
“The Barrow? You are a mighty warrior to have survived such a place.” Before Gryph could comment or flush more, she turned to Myrthendir, as if seeking his permission. The Prince Regent nodded his head and Yrriel smiled.
“You cannot know how long I’ve dreamt of this day,” she said, looking down on the artifact that was the symbol of authority of her people. “May I?” she asked, seeking Gryph’s permission.
Panic surged through Gryph. He understood the argument that the spear belonged to the elves of Sylvan Aenor and not some random newcomer to the Realms, but Gryph had no desire to give up the amazing weapon. I wonder if this is how the curator of the British Museum felt when they returned the Rosetta Stone to Egypt? With a sense of dread Gryph nodded to Yrriel.
Yrriel traced a reverent finger along the surface of the weapon, unwilling to touch it, as if she were examining the Holy Grail or Excalibur. After a moment the elf exhaled and Gryph realized the woman had been holding her breath. At their side Myrthendir watched, an inscrutable look on his face.
“An impressive weapon,” Yrriel said, not taking her eyes from it. “Crafted by three Grandmasters out of materials so rare and precious they were worth more than most kingdoms.”
She moved her hand down the shaft of the spear. Whorls of color seemed to flow along the silver colored shaft of the weapon like oil on water. “I never thought I’d see prismatic elementum in my lifetime. Thank you for letting me see it.”
“Um, you’re welcome,” Gryph said, and she grinned at him, then turned her attention back to the weapon with all the joy of a child on Christmas morning.
“This was one of four items made to seal the Alliance against the Dark Ascendency. The High King of Sylvan Aenor was given the spear. The War Lord of the High Orcs received a belt of power, the King of the Nimmerian High Men a potent ring and the Stone King, the Dwarf Lord of Dar Thoriim bore an amulet said to strengthen the powers of the mind.”
“Each was powerful alone, but together their capabilities were vast beyond comprehension. If one leader of the Alliance died in battle, the others would take command of their forces and possession of the artifact they bore. Thus, it was believed, the surviving leaders of the Alliance would be powerful enough to absorb the loss. During the Exodus the artifacts were lost. I cannot help but think the discovery of this weapon is an omen of things to come.”
Gryph didn’t want to interrupt the moment and gave Yrriel the time she needed. Eventually the elf looked up at him, smiling the abashed grin of a kid with a new toy. She handed the spear to Gryph. The feeling of utter relief that passed through Gryph as his fingers gripped the shaft of the weapon surprised and concerned him. Then a quest prompt filled his mind.
You have been offered the Quest Weapons of the Alliance
Long ago four wondrous artifacts were created to seal an Alliance of ancient enemies. These items were of vast power, but if combined they would make the bearer akin to a god. You have found one item. Find the other three and bring hope back to the Realms.
Difficulty: Unearthly.
Reward(s): Unknown. This is a multi-part Quest. Each part has its own, currently unknown rewards.
Price of Failure: None
XP: Unknown
This Quest Cannot Be Refused.
Holy crap, Gryph thought. The level of difficulty of this quest was unlike any he’d yet seen, but the rewards were commensurate to the difficulty. He had no idea when, or if, he’d be able to start, much less complete, this quest, but he sure as hell wanted to try.
“I have something for you,” Yrriel said and motioned for Gryph to approach. She turned and placed her hand atop what looked to be a solid block of metal, closed her eyes and the metal flowed aside like mercury under her hand. A small part of Gryph panicked as he recognized the same ‘technology’ that he had seen in his soul reverie. But there was no buzzing, no malevolence, and Gryph pushed his panic down.
Inside lay a variety of items, but a row of rectangular gemstones engraved with intricate runes and symbols drew Gryph's gaze. He wasn’t much of a bling guy, and Finn had never worn so much as a watch, but his eyes widened.
“I see you are a man of taste,” the elf woman said. She smiled and then lifted an inch-long sapphire from the shelf. Delicate runes scrawled across its surface.
Gryph pouted when his Gift of Tongues ability failed to provide him with a translation. Perhaps it does not work on a written script? She handed the gemstone to Gryph, and he felt a small shock as a low buzz filled his ears. Flashes of blue and white energy pulsed inside the sapphire depths. His Identify ability flared and Gryph knew it was an Icon.
“Do you know what that is?” Yrriel asked, nodding at the Icon.
“An Icon? Some kind of magical item.” Gryph said in amazement, remembering that the stave had slots for Icons.
Yrriel grinned at Gryph like he was a child who thought a fusion reactor was ‘just a battery.’ “Yes, a very potent magical item.” She took the Icon from his palm and looked down at the spear. “May I? “Gryph nodded.
She mumbled under her breath and the Icon floated off her hand. It spun in the air and small sparks flowed across its surface. The flashes of blue mini lightning illuminated the woman’s eyes, and he realized that they were a deep, storm gray.
“Magic is an entropic force. It matters not whether it is life or death magic, or of the order or the chaos sphere,” this last bit she said with a thinning of her lips and a slight look at Myrthendir. Apparently rumors of the chaos infection had spread. “Magic is virulent and unrelenting. It wears down anything that tries to co
nstrain it. We use items to store this power. The stronger the item, the more resistant it is to the deprivations of magic. Icons are the pinnacle of this concept. They are rare and valuable gemstones infused with potent magics.”
Her hand caressed the tip of the spear and as her hands moved down the shaft the adamantine tip sprang from its housing. “Do you see these slots carved right below the spearhead?” Gryph nodded. “They are Icon slots, meant to hold … Icons.” This last bit she said in a tone that made Gryph think of the ancient Earth saying ‘wait for it.’ She lowered her hand, and the Icon spun and sparked above it. A faint blue glow rose behind her pupils, mirroring the discharges inside the sapphire. She grunted in concentration and effort and Gryph watched as the effort brought a sheen of sweat to her brow.
She turned her hand upside down and gripped the spear tightly with her other hand, holding it down as if she expected it to lash out at her. The Icon hovered below her hand as she moved her palm closer to the slot on the spear. Her hand shook as if the spear and the Icon were two magnets of the same polarity. Neither wanted to be mated to the other and Gryph could feel the power raging to prevent the union.
Yrriel grunted, forcing more mana and more willpower into the Icon. It was spinning so fast it was a blur. Small bolts of lightning flashed from the surface punching into the spear, the table and even into Yrriel herself. Each discharge caused her to grunt in pain, but her focus never wavered.
Gryph’s heart thundered as he watched. Then the light grew too bright to focus upon. A wind whipped through the room and the glow globes grew brighter and flickered. Then, with a sudden clap of thunder and explosion of chill air, the Icon snapped into the slot on the spear.
All eyes in the room were on the spear as the Icon flashed once, twice, three times, each flash surging tendrils of electricity up and down the weapon. A few moments passed and the distant rumble of thunder stopped and the flashes of blue eased as the blue gemstone drew them back into itself.
