by C. M. Carney
“Where is Gryph and the gnome Wick?” he heard the anxious voice of his sister say. He lowered the spyglass to find Sillendriel standing at his side. He frowned. “You should not be here sister. Take the non-combatants and the children into the Bastion.”
“This is my fight just as much as yours, little brother.”
Barrendiel frowned. “I’ve been a foot taller than you for 75 years sister, can you stop calling me little brother?”
“If we both live through this, I promise this will be the last time … little brother.” The amusement in her voice disappeared, and she turned a worried gaze back to the advancing forces. “This is wrong. I saw Gryph and the gnome fighting for our cause. Where are they?”
Barrendiel glanced at his sister. He had long been one of the few citizens of Sylvan Aenor who did not fear her, but that did not mean he’d always trusted in her visions. Too often they were clouded affairs with multiple meanings and uncertain outcomes. Barrendiel could not imagine how one warrior, regardless of how impressive he seemed, would make any difference in the fight coming for them.
“What makes this Gryph so important?”
“I have never told you how my visions come to me, have I?”
Barrendiel shook his head in shame. I have never asked her about her curse, not once. It had been a topic he avoided because talking about it made it more real for him. He stared across the water, a part of him wished the battle would begin and take his attention from the discussion. He was ashamed at the realization that he'd rather face the blood and chaos of battle than understand her curse. In that moment he knew he was a coward, too afraid to understand the burden his sister carried day in and day out since the moment she’d been born. As if knowing it, truly understanding it, would somehow cast that hardship upon him.
Sillendriel laid a light hand on his forearm and gripped him tightly as if the thoughts swirling through his mind could be read as easily as the page of an open book. Perhaps they are. He laid a hand on his sister’s and smiled at her. “Tell me.”
“I see the paths people walk as threads of possibility, vibrant strings, each unique to the person who spawns it. They bend and twine around each other and move from the past into the future. The past is bright, static and solid, as these events have already happened. The present comes to me in the form of a bright light full of hopes, fears and possibilities. I feel the wants, needs, desires, both hidden and known, of everyone stretching into the future like the roots of an infinite tree. Some are brighter and filled with light. Other dark and withered with rot. Sometimes I know how they will get to where they need to be, and I can help them find the right path. Other times the wrong path and the right are so tightly bound to each other I cannot see the true outcome. Most roots are of little consequence to the Realms at large, but occasionally I touch upon a soul that draws all others where it goes.”
“And Gryph is one of those souls?”
“Yes. When Gryph first came before us I saw all of our destinies entwined into his. He pulled us along behind him like a hurricane sucking power from a warm ocean. On the other side only two strands emerged, one of illumination and hope and another of darkness and despair. This is why I told him not to give up the seal and the eggs. Every strand would have turned dark had he given them to Lassendir.”
Her hand came to her mouth in shock. “I am the reason that Lassendir is dead.” She buried her head in his shoulder and wept. “I should have warned him.”
Barrendiel took his sister by the chin and eased her head up. “Listen to me now and know the truth of my words. Only one wretched soul will descend into the void for Lassendir’s death, and that is the man who wielded the knife. That is Myrthendir.”
Sillendriel reached a shaking hand up to her brother’s face and smiled. He smiled back and then forced himself to ask a question. He would have rather eviscerated himself than ask it, but he needed the answer. The entire Realms needed the answer.
“What do you see now?”
A reluctant smile crossed Sillendriel’s face and then her eye’s drifted up into her head, exposing the whites. Barrendiel watched her, his concern growing to worry as her mouth opened in terror and fear, but no sound came with it. Tears formed like dew in the corner of her eyes and she fell to her knees.
Her soundless scream flowed over Barrendiel, jabbing into his mind like a thin blade of ice, but he pushed through the pain and knelt next to his sister. Her eyes snapped open, zipping back and forth like a seizure victim.
He held her until her muscles stopped spasming and her breathing grew steady again. Around him the people of Sylvan Aenor shuffled and murmured as fear flowed in the wake of Sillendriel’s psychic wave. Barrendiel barely noticed, for his entire world was the slight elf maiden he held in his arms. The sister who always needed his comfort, whom he had always failed.
She opened her eyes and grabbed the back of his neck. “I can no longer see him.”
“He is dead?”
“I do not know. There is only darkness as if something pulled thick wool over my eyes. But I know this, without Gryph we are all doomed.”
She looked at Barrendiel and the weight on the billion souls of the Realms crushed down upon him and for the first time he understood what it was like to be his sister. He pulled her to him and held her in his arms. “Please go to the Bastion. I will buy Gryph the time he needs.”
She smiled grimly, grabbed his forearm and stared into his eyes. He felt the slightest of flinches push through her, but she neither pulled her hand back nor broke eye contact. While her ever-present ability cursed her with a general knowledge of the future of everybody in Sylvan Aenor, it took a deeper connection, one made with touch and direct eye contact, to truly see the strands of an individual person.
She was living through dozens of possible outcomes for his future. In some of them, probably most, she was watching him die. She held his gaze, unflinching, and he loved her for that.
“Yes, that is where I am meant to be,” she said in an oddly cool tone. “I will see you soon brother.” She pulled away from him and walked towards the Spire. With the aid of the Thalmiir, their ancestors had built the Bastion, a last-ditch defensive fortress hidden in the mountain behind Aurvendiel. The Bastion had never been breached, but Barrendiel feared today was a day of firsts.
He watched her go for several moments before turning and pushing his way through his advance guard. He walked onto the bridge and drew his sword, holding it aloft in defiance.
“Where are you going?” The paladin captain asked in alarm.
“To buy this Gryph some time. Let’s hope he isn’t late.”
*****
The cool breeze flowing across the Deep Water renewed Myrthendir. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, letting the wind send fingers of air through his hair. Early mornings had been his favorite time of day as a child. They were peaceful, a calm joy before the uncontrolled chaos of life ruined the transition between night and day.
He stood in silence for several moments desperate to feel that joy once more but knew he no longer could. He had changed too much. The veil had been torn from his mortal illusions as he had become transformed into something greater.
He sent his mind roiling through the aether towards his enemies across the water. At first, he was content to dance upon the eddies and whorls that made up the visible world. But, soon he grew discontented with the fleeting resonances of possibility and dove deeper.
The aether was a primal sea of possibility and the source of all that was, had been and would be. It had existed long before the Source had molded its primal clay into the Realms, and it would exist long after all the Realms turned to ash.
To the weak of mind, the aether presented as a maelstrom of chaos, but those attuned to it could sense an underlying order. It was the engine of creation and few could meld it to their will. This was the power of the Prime.
Down deep he saw the tendrils of possibility. He sent his awareness into the lake and felt for echoes of what had be
en. He paired the echoes to a mental picture of the bridge he knew had once traversed the Deep Water and weaved the two into something new, pulling it to the now.
The Deep Water roiled, scattering birds, fish, and wildlife that lived upon its shores as water surged upwards and the ancient bridge the Thalmiir had sunk along with their city, rose to the surface once more. From across the lake, the shock of the people that were no longer his own flowed over Myrthendir like a wave. He could sense their will wane as hopeless fear pushed through them, bringing a smile to the aberrant elf lord’s face. He opened his eyes and stood.
“Let’s expand some minds.” He looked to his left and then to his right, where Ovrym and Tifala flanked him, by all appearances his loyal lieutenants. A jolt of hatred pulsed through the gnome woman and jabbed at Myrthendir. He turned and took her chin in his hand, forcing her to face him. “You feel helpless and betrayed. I have been where you are now, and I will show you the truth that set me free. When this is all done, history will remember us both as heroes.”
Tifala did not, could not, move, but Myrthendir felt her struggle against him. Even bolstered by anger and hatred her willpower impressed him. “We are very much alike, you and I.”
He waited for a moment, mocking her inability to complain, toying with her, but his control over her was perfect. He turned to Ovrym. “How about you my oh so serious friend?” The xydai did not move, but Myrthendir flinched at the focused mental assault the warrior monk had sent at the black fog clouding his mind.
“You two are fighters. Perhaps time will help you see that my cause is all our cause. I wish there were another way. I do not relish your fear.” The words were barely out of Myrthendir’s mouth when the tinge of the emotions pulsing through the aether from the far side of the lake changed and a raucous cheer rose.
Myrthendir’s lips creased into a scowl. “Barrendiel.” His anger surged threatening to bubble over like an ill watched alchemist’s cauldron, but he forced it down. I am the aether made flesh in service of all the Realms and I will not let the chaos of anger control me.
He raised a fist and then walked across the bridge. The gnome and the xydai kept pace on each side, their hands ready for the motions of spell casting. Behind them the chthonic demon snorted jets of crimson fire and smoke as his cloven hooves thudded on the bridge. Then came the warborn to the sounds of booming war drums and thousands of feet marching as one.
Tense minutes passed as the one-time Prince Regent of Sylvan Aenor marched on his people. He stopped just out of range of the enemy’s archers. His cousin stood at the head of his army and pride filled Myrthendir. Barrendiel had always been a tough, stubborn bastard. It was the one thing he’d always liked about him, and the one thing that made his cousin’s betrayal of him so much more poignant.
Barrendiel walked towards him accompanied by the paladin captain and the one-time Steward garbed in the green armor of a ranger. Myrthendir grinned. He had not known of the half elf’s previous life, a rare gap in his knowledge. Myrthendir started forward, flanked by his own lieutenants.
Soon they were face to face, cousins and one-time best friends. A heavy silence hung in the air, but Myrthendir was determined to outlast his impatient cousin. It did not take long.
“So you’re a king now?” Barrendiel said with forced jest.
Myrthendir traced the crown at his brow. “A little garish I agree, but the Thalmiir loved their baubles.”
“Why are you doing this Myr?”
A grimace of anger tightened Myrthendir’s face at the use of his childhood nickname. He is trying to get me to react, trying to make me feel. Anger surged inside him and a mote of his old self tried to dig its way from the grave he’d buried him in. He felt old betrayals as if they were once again happening to him. But this Myrthendir was no longer the man Myr. He had shed his weaknesses the day the Prime had come for him.
“Do you know what they did to me cousin, deep under the desert, where you left me to die?”
A look of genuine regret came across Barrendiel’s face. “I searched for days after we were separated. I faced horrors trying to find you.”
A bark of a laugh erupted from Myrthendir. “Horrors? Oh, my naïve friend, you cannot imagine the horrors that exist in the dark places of the Realms.”
"I can and I do." Barrendiel's shoulders slumped. "And I am sorry." The ranger's eyes returned to Myrthendir's. "I know what you have become. I have felt it. An aberrant illurryth."
Another humorless laugh pushed past Myrthendir’s lips. “You are a babe lost in the woods, with no idea how to find your way home, nor how much you will have changed if you find your way back. I am not illurryth, and the Prime were never my masters. They were but engines of my evolution. They have fulfilled their purpose and now I will eliminate them all.”
Barrendiel’s shock brought joy to Myrthendir’s heart. “You are mad,” The ranger said, drew his sword and rushed his cousin. With a rabid grin the elf lord rushed forward with his staff. With a crack of empyrean wood against elvish steel war began.
A volley of arrows alight with multiple hues of energy zipped over their heads where they exploded against invisible fields that expanded with blossoms of green and deep purple light as they absorbed the punishing attack. Tifala and Ovrym grunted under the strain but continued to feed mana into the shields. Soon their own reserves of magical power bled dry, and the barriers flickered.
Myrthendir landed a blow to the side of his cousin’s head and knocked him back. He grinned down upon his stunned cousin but did not press the attack. Instead he stared down on him like a hunter whose trap had borne fruit. He raised his hand and then closed it to a fist. Behind him the warborn marched, led by the roar of the abyssal terror as it thundered forward on cloven hooves of fiery magma.
Several of Barrendiel’s rangers rushed forward and dragged their captain back to the defensive lines. Just as he reached safety the archers let fly a second time, sure the power of their onslaught would puncture the shield this time.
But arcs of pure mana exploded from a pair of warborn and thrummed into the gnome and the xydai. They pulled the mana into themselves and redirected it into the shields. The second volley of arrows exploded against the barrier. The two casters strained against the punishing energy. Behind them the warborn whose mana they’d stolen keeled over, dead.
Barrendiel’s shock hovered at the edge of panic as Myrthendir ordered his own missile attack. Several dozen heavy arbalest bolts zipped past his attacking forces and exploded against the defender’s shimmering green shields. The field held, but their mana reserves were finite, while Myrthendir had access to several thousand reserves.
Myrthendir motioned for Avernerius to join the fray. The demon stormed forward and roared. It extended its clawed hand and a massive sword of magma and flames expanded from nothing to a full 12 feet in length. Murmurs of terror built in the ranger’s lines.
“We’ve killed it once before lads. We can do it again,” Barrendiel roared. “Target the hell beast.” His archers turned their aim at the approaching demon. A hundred flashes of light twanged off bowstrings just as the beast emerged from behind the defensive field.
Arrows rained down from above and for a moment it looked as if they’d find their mark, but the abyssal terror was a lieutenant of the abyss and no mere titan of muscular destruction. The demon skidded to a stop and held the sword up by hilt and blade. Words that would have torn a mortal throat to shreds rumbled forth from the demon’s tooth filled maw and a wave of crimson energy burst from the sword. The incoming arrows turned to ash and their stored-up mana rebounded back at the line of rangers.
Screams of agony and shock tore through the ranks as the elves were shredded by their own mana. The demon rumbled forwards as injured rangers were pulled behind the safety of their caster’s shields.
Avernerius raised its sword above his head and brought it crushing down onto the shield. A deep, resonant thung echoed around the valley and several of the casters were knocked to their kne
es. The field shimmered and a wicked grin crossed Myrthendir’s face. He’d been on the receiving end of such an attack and was glad to see the tables turned.
Avernerius brought his sword down again and again and again, each time the thung grew in volume. Crack like imperfections appeared in the field as more of the mages were injured or disorientated by the infernal assault, stealing their mana input from the shield.
“Retreat,” Barrendiel howled and lifted fallen men to their feet. Despite the ineffectiveness of their defense the Rangers of Sylvan Aenor were professional warriors, and they obeyed their commands without hesitation, withdrawing to the secondary wall of paladin’s, archers and casters.
Those few casters still holding the shield together ran backwards covering their brethren’s retreat. Just as they reached their lines another volley of imbued arrows arced over their heads They caught the massive demon off guard and he failed to get his sword up in time to char all the arrows to ash. Several got through and punched into his face, chest and arms.
A roar of pain and rage tore from Avernerius’ throat. The beast extinguished its sword, lowered its shoulders and rushed towards the enemy line like a rampaging bull, one that was a dozen feet high at the shoulders and whose curved horns were ablaze with chthonic fire. The demon pummeled into the paladin’s shield wall before the elvish mages could re-establish their magical field.
Screams rose from trampled and gored men, and Myrthendir grinned. He held his fist up and then brought it down in a forceful motion of command. A cadre of warborn rushed forward bearing large kite shields. A war cry erupted from their throats and shields came together to form a shell of shields.
Avernerius was still distracting the rangers, just as Myrthendir had hoped. He’d smashed through the center of the elves’ defenses, littering the bridge with bodies. His cousin was still on his feet, a deep gash on his forehead trailing blood down his face like a macabre mask. Barrendiel turned and met Myrthendir’s eyes. A small grin crossed the Prince Regent’s face and Barrendiel tore his eyes from Myrthendir’s gaze to look around.
