by C. M. Carney
He thrust down into the exposed spot between the armor plates at the shoulder joint with Penetrating Strike, Impale and Yrriel’s Bite. The tip sunk home and the force of the electricity exploded into the automaton, knocking it to one knee. The roaring fury of the jet of flame extinguished.
The automaton swung its left arm back, trying to dislodge Gryph, but the player twisted the spear deeper into the machine’s shoulder joint. The right arm rotated 180 degrees at the shoulder and the fist punched down onto Gryph like a battering ram. Gryph grunted as his health dropped by 20%. It pulled its fist back and Gryph braced for the blow when he heard Wick’s voice full of calm purpose.
“Gryph, move!”
The sound of Wick’s voice was a welcome shock, but Gryph ignored all the questions searing through his mind and jumped off the automaton’s back a moment before the fist pummeled him again.
He tucked and rolled and was back on his feet in time to see a swirling cone of purple flame erupt from Wick’s open mouth. The automaton screamed again before swinging its arm around and a shimmering field of green energy pulsed from the metal beast’s arm. The flames splattered against the shield and Wick pumped an arm in joy. Then his eyes widened as the arm Gryph had damaged shuddered, sparked and then pointed at the gnome. A housing on its forearm opened and the barbed head of an arbalest bolt slid out.
The bolt screamed at Wick, but then in a blur of motion Errat was there. He deflected the bolt with his axe and then swung the heavy, flat edge of the blade against the automaton, sending it crashing to the ground, where it slid into a corner.
The automaton grunted and rose, this time facing Gryph. Gryph’s eyes widened in surprise. A stocky, bearded man, a dwarf, rode inside the automaton’s chest cavity, shielded by a shell of metal and crystal. The man’s eyes were wide and manic, and he rushed at Gryph with a roar.
Gryph braced his spear as the metal clad man leapt. Gryph threw his hand in front of his face and punched mana into the Ring of Air Shield. The familiar vacuum rush exploded into a sphere of solid air around Gryph and the crazed dwarf in his metal suit smashed into it with the force of a thunderclap.
His arm buckled under the onslaught, and the automaton flew back with the same speed and force he’d attacked with. He skidded on his back, sending a shower of sparks into the air and then crunched against a nearby column.
Gryph and Wick both moved to press the attack when Errat jumped between them and held a hand out. Against his better judgment Gryph slowed but did not lower his spear. Wick also stood ready, crimson energy pulsing around his hands.
“Errat?” Gryph asked, tension spilling from his voice. The warborn did not turn to Gryph, but kept his attention focused on the dwarf and his killer robot suit. The man struggled to get the machine back on its feet.
“Father, stop,” Errat said as the man in the metal suit regained his footing.
“Father?” Wick said in surprise and turned to Gryph.
The dwarf inside the metal beast cocked his head, a movement mimicked by the automaton’s metallic head, and stared at the warborn. Servos whirred, and bent gears ground as the machine shifted from one foot to another. Finally, the dwarf spoke.
“Errat? Is that you son?”
The tension ratcheted down as the carapace protecting the bearded man parted and the exhausted dwarf stepped down. Errat knelt and embraced the stocky man. Several long moments passed in silence.
“Where is mother?” Errat asked, apprehension flowing at the edges of his wide, innocent eyes.
The dwarf said nothing, but an expression of desperate pain crossed his face and he shook his head. “I’m sorry son. She did not survive.”
Errat’s shoulders slumped and a single, barely audible word came from the giant man. “How?”
“I do not know. Her stasis chamber somehow malfunctioned and the seal was gone, along with her Goliath Rig.”
“I do not understand.”
“Neither do I,” the dwarf said and pulled Errat tightly to him.
Then Wick finally spoke up. “I don’t mean to ruin your … um … family reunion, but we are wasting time.”
Errat stood and nodded an apology. “You are right. We will talk on the way. For now, this is Grimliir, Master Artificer of Dar Thoriim and my father. Father, these are my friends Gryph and Wick.”
The stolid Thalmiir eyed Gryph and Wick warily, his eye twitching in a manner that did not bring the warm fuzzies to Gryph’s heart. After a moment he grunted and held out a hand. “Well met, Gryph. Well, met Wick.”
Both player and warlock eyed the dwarf for a moment before taking his hand. The man’s grip was like iron and despite their truce, they understood the dwarf was sizing them up. “So why are you young fellas in such a hurry?”
Gryph gave an abbreviated version of their story. He told them of Barrow and the seal, of the betrayal of Myrthendir, and the unleashing of the black fog. He mentioned Wick’s imminent death but left out any bit about the divine power that had enabled the resurrection.
While Grimliir listened, he loaded himself back into his automaton grumbling the entire time. The further into the tale Gryph got, the more foul became Grimliir’s mood. “Then I have truly failed,” the ancient dwarf said. After a moment he looked up. “You must have questions. I promise to answer them if I am able.”
“I’m glad we’re all great pals now, but can we get moving?” Wick pleaded.
“We will talk as we run,” Grimliir said, acknowledging Wick’s stress.
Soon they were running from the large cavern city and into a tunnel Errat assured them would bring them to the gates. Gryph made sure he remained behind Grimliir. Errat seemed to trust the dwarf, and while Gryph believed Errat had no falsehood in his heart, he questioned the warborn’s ability to judge the honesty of others.
He was the one who sensed Myrthendir was off, he thought. But said nothing because he wanted to be friends, another countered. Gryph realized how quickly he had discounted the warborn as a threat. Not just Errat, but his entire race, if that was even the correct term for a model of machines, even sentient ones. The warborn were as big a mystery as the black fog.
“You made the warborn,” Gryph said.
“I did,” Grimliir said, casting an inscrutable gaze at Gryph. “We were losing the war, and while the Alliance’s army grew smaller with each battle, the Dark Ascendancy’s grew larger. They killed the lucky ones. They took the others and tore their minds apart through torture. It was a war of attrition for us and of addition for the Prime. It soon became evident we could not win.”
Grimliir glanced at Errat, a subtle sadness altering his expression.
“So, we changed the rules of the game.” He paused as if seeking the best way to continue. “As Errat said I was the Master Artificer of this city, but I was also the foremost practitioner of my art on all of Korynn, perhaps across all the Realms. I tell you this not to impress you, but to help you understand how my arrogance pushed my people, all the peoples of Korynn, to the brink of extinction.”
The group reached the end of the long gallery and passed through another of the great gates of Dar Thoriim. The road twined upwards like a massive corkscrew and Gryph suspected they were in one of the towers Errat had mentioned.
“This will take us to the surface.” Errat said and then deferred to his father.
“My automatons, the only children I ever expected to have, had served the Thalmiir for years. As our numbers dwindled, we re-purposed them and unleashed them against the Prime. We sent goliath, ballisturai, centurions, sentinels and scouts into battle by the thousands, and when desperate even the arachnids saw combat. The tide turned, and the Alliance agreed to put all their efforts into a massive building campaign. After all, Dar Thoriim sits on the largest known reserves of the metals and gems needed to construct the automatons on Korynn.” A wry snort passed Grimliir’s lips. “It only took the end of the world for us dwarves to share our wealth.”
The dwarf’s demeanor grew dour. It was the same ex
pression military commanders had when they realized that they’d been outmaneuvered by the enemy and their men would soon die in droves. It was a look of helpless rage mixed with crushing guilt and Gryph had seen it destroy many a lesser commander.
“We strung together an impressive series of victories. We dared to hope again.” Regret turned the dwarf’s face as hard as stone. “But, as we Thalmiir were fond of saying, all good things come to an end. The Prime discovered how to harness the dread power of their aetherial magic to take control of the automatons and our metal brethren turned on us.”
“That has to be how the Dweller’s turned the arachnids on us,” Wick said, absorbed by the tale, thoughts of his imminent death pushed from the fore of his mind.
“It was never the Dwellers.” Guilt wormed its way inside Gryph’s heart. He’d acted like a pathetic fanboy and missed the signs that Myrthendir had been wrong. “It was always Myrthendir,” Gryph said remembering the aberrant elf lord’s rant.
“Very likely, if what you say about this Myrthendir is true,” Grimliir said, pausing to give Gryph’s words due deference, before returning to his tale. “We tried to build defenses against their control, but we failed. Each time we got close to understanding their magic they adapted. The Alliance had few practitioners of Aetherial Magic, and most of them were corrupted by the Prime, though we did not discover that until it was nearly too late.”
Gryph remembered the tale of the last Thalmiir king Myrthendir had told him. He believed, despite the elf lord’s trickster nature, that the tale had been true. Was the Stone King was an aetherial mage?
“I was able to shut down the entire automaton army, so at least they could not be used against us, but without their might the Alliance was doomed.” Grimliir paused, reliving events that, from his perspective, were recent. “I proposed a desperate plan, one that could turn our losses into a gain, but it required a great sacrifice.”
“You captured your fallen warriors’ souls and used them to animate the warborn,” Wick said in a quick voice, as if hastening the conversation would help them reach their destination quicker.
Grimliir frowned at the purple skinned gnome and nodded. “My wife discovered that beings with souls were immune to the methods used to control the automatons. The Prime corrupted sentient beings through ... other means.”
“Torture,” Gryph said.
“Yes, a technique they perfected with the Fallen, but unleashed on all of their enemies.” The Thalmiir spat at the ground in anger and then returned to his tale. “With the aid of several Grand Masters from the Alliance, my wife and I could construct living automatons, the warborn. They do not feel pain as we do and were therefore immune to torture. Their souls also granted them immunity to the controls the Prime used on automatons. It was to be the perfect solution.”
“But then the Prime seduced the Stone King,” Gryph said.
Anger clenched Grimliir’s jaw, but then he nodded. “Balgriim was one of the best kings the Thalmiir had ever produced. He was both a mighty warrior, and a learned scholar. He was wise and fierce and saw the truth of what was to come before any of us. The rest of us believed our mountain fortresses were unassailable, that nothing could harm us if we closed our doors to the rest of the Realms. Only Balgriim saw our arrogance for what it was, a slow suicide. It was through his pure force of will that the Thalmiir joined the Alliance.”
“He was an aetherial mage,” Gryph said in shock.
“Yes,” Grimliir said with a nod. “The first one among the Thalmiir in centuries. He discovered how the Prime were controlling our automatons. He was the one who helped me turn them off when they marched against us. He saved us all. But he grew desperate and pledged to end the Prime threat once and for all. His desperation pushed him too far.”
“He was studying the arboleth,” Gryph said, Myrthendir’s story coming into sharp focus.
“And they him. By the time we discovered the Prime had taken his mind, it was too late. He’d unleashed the black fog and suborned the warborn to the will of the Prime.”
The Thalmiir seemed to age before Gryph’s eyes. He saw the weight of millions of souls and thousands of years weigh on Grimliir, but knew it was one soul that tore at him now. “You killed him,” Gryph said in sudden realization, and drew a hand to his chest and cringed at the phantom pain of a sword thrust that had ended a past life.
“I did, but I could neither control nor destroy the black fog, so I ordered the city abandoned and sealed. I used the technique Balgriim and I had discovered to put the warborn to sleep.” He glanced at Errat. “It did not work on you son. I wish I knew why?”
“Because I am wrong,” Errat said like a kid proud of a nickname he failed to see was an insult.
“I never liked that name,” Grimliir said with a frown
“You stayed behind,” Gryph said.
“Yes, and my wife insisted on staying with me, a last resort against the unimaginable.”
“Looks like you need a bigger imagination,” Wick said, a tinge of venom to his voice.
“Apparently,” Grimliir said.
They turned the last coil of the corridor and came to another set of massive iron laden doors. Gryph had to admit the Thalmiir built to last. Grimliir walked up to a rune covered square on the wall and tapped out a sequence with his goliath rig’s massive fingers.
The doors eased open and a warm light bathed their faces. They walked through the doors and Gryph realized that they were in the entrance gallery by the main gates to the city. They walked through and the doors closed behind them, leaving no trace they’d ever existed.
Errat’s eyes widened in joy at the sight of the lake and valley. Gryph suspected the warborn had never seen the sun or the sky or anything but the dour world under the mountain and for a moment he felt the large man’s elation. Then they saw the warborn marching across the bridge and that joy became pain.
“Wick, it’s time to summon Xeg,” Gryph said, looking down on his small friend.
The gnome’s shoulders sunk. “I really hoped my last day on earth would be imp free.”
“Sorry bud, we need all the help we can get.”
Wick sighed and cast. The imp arrived in a flash of crimson flame and sulfur. It took a moment for the demonling to adjust to his new surroundings before he hissed at Wick and jumped onto his head smacking him with his tail.
“Xeg no say blue-haired doofus could die.”
Gryph rushed up and grabbed the imp by neck and waist and pulled him free. He hissed at Gryph until the player shook him calm. “Xeg, chill out. We need your help to save Tifala and Ovrym.”
The imp calmed and glared at Gryph and then Wick. “Why you let pretty lady get captured?”
“Gods, I hate you,” Wick grumbled and turned towards the Deep Water. The imp jumped atop Errat’s shoulders, earning a suspicious glance from Grimliir, but the dour dwarf kept silent.
Wick's irritation drained from his face and was replaced by worry and fear. “How can we beat that?” The gnome asked.
“All we can do is fight,” Gryph said and placed his hand on Wick’s shoulder. “And I’ll fight with you to my last breath.”
Wick smiled grimly. “Let’s kick some warborn ass.”
“What is ass?” Errat asked.
“I’ll explain later,” Wick said.
“Love the optimism,” Gryph retorted, earning a grin from his small friend. Gryph nodded and then the five of them marched towards an army.
39
Barrendiel moved back and forth, organizing his forces. As soon as the bridge surfaced, he had recognized the strategic need to keep control of the span of stone. They were outnumbered and had to use the terrain to even the balance. His forces must create a defensive bulwark on the bridge if they had any hope of stopping Myrthendir’s advance.
Overall command of the city's defenses was given to Barrendiel. The Captain of the Knight’s Paladin of Sylvan Aenor, the ancient King’s Guard that had guarded the Regent since the Exodus, had taken his
subordination to the ranger captain well under the circumstances. The man held no great love for Barrendiel, but understood he was a better field commander.
He organized the paladins at the front. Their resplendent plate armor and skill with shield and sword made them the perfect first line of defense. He interspersed the most capable of his rangers among them and then placed several troops of archers behind them. Next came spell casters of various affinities that lent themselves to attack or defense, with a space on either side of their group to advance more warriors and archers as needed.
He kept one eye on the enemy but was surprised his cousin was letting him make his own preparations. Any capable commander worked to prevent the enemy from setting the rules of the contest. Why is he waiting?
“What is he waiting for?” said a voice to his left.
The Steward, clad in the dark green armor of a ranger and bearing an impressive looking spear, stood next to him. “Steward, what are you doing here? Your place is with the people.”
“These are my people,” Gartheniel responded and held up a hand before the captain could speak. “The Steward dedicates his life to his Regent. The true Regent is dead and his son a traitor. There is no Regent, so no need for a Steward. Now I am just an ex ranger who will fight for his people, and no man will prevent me from doing my duty.”
An objection came to Barrendiel’s lips but then he grinned and nodded. “You were a ranger?”
“Son, I lived a long life before you took your first breath.” With that, the one-time steward joined the group of casters on the front lines. They sent nervous looks his way before he said something Barrendiel could not hear, and the casters laughed and smiled, a few clapped the shorter half elf on the back.
Then movement at the far end of the bridge drew Barrendiel’s eye, and he peered through his spyglass. The enemy was marching, with Myrthendir at the front and the xydai and the gnomish woman flanking him. A wave of malevolence rushed towards him as his accursed cousin stepped onto the bridge.
