by C. M. Carney
You know something is amiss cousin. You always were an able commander, Myrthendir thought. Perhaps you’ll keep that capability under my new order.
Barrendiel’s gaze fell on the advancing warborn and he raised sword and voice in alarm. “Rangers, to me. Archers focus on that advancing group. Find weak spots in their defenses and crack them open like a dragon tortoise on feast day.” Then he rushed towards the warborn, heedless of his own safety.
A barrage of arrows pummeled into the defenses of the warborn. Explosions rocked the shields, but the metallic shell kept coming. As they reached the elvish defenses, the warborn shifted their shield formation from scoop to sharp edged ram and pummeled into the paladin’s shields. Myrthendir lost sight of his cousin in the melee.
Armored elves went down screaming under the assault and the warborn pushed their battering ram deeper into the elvish line. Then, suddenly, they stopped their advance. Another guttural command erupted from inside the defensive wall and then the shell morphed down, exposing the top of the formation to the world.
In the center of their midst were four warborn each bearing the end of a wooden stave that supported the adamantine cube containing the black fog. They set it down and stood. A war cry erupted from the opposite side of the armored contingent and then Barrendiel leapt over the wall and landed inside the defensive perimeter. It only took the ranger a few seconds to lay the first warborn low. While they were mighty warriors, the four carrying the cube were unarmed, and Barrendiel was one of the fiercest warriors Myrthendir had ever seen.
Another of the warborn attendants died and Barrendiel turned towards a third, but their deaths were of no consequence. You’ve made a critical error cousin. Myrthendir closed his eyes, and a tingle itched at his brow. It grew to an intense buzzing and then he sent the command.
•••••
Barrendiel removed his blade from the side of the fourth warborn and turned to the strange metal cube they’d been carrying. He had no idea what it was, but he knew it was the real threat.
Just as the thought moved through his mind the top of the metallic cube flowed open as if it had become liquid. A buzzing sound built up inside the box and almost unbidden a corona of flame came to Barrendiel’s free hand. He peered into the box, ready to let his spell fly, when the buzz became a roar and a stream of minuscule black particles exploded from the box and pummeled him in the face.
His spell fired from his hand, searing the back of the nearest warborn, but Barrendiel did not notice. His world became a swirling vortex of claustrophobia and fear as a million black fog mites surged into his nose and mouth.
He would have screamed, if he’d been able to draw breath, but soon he felt his mind pulled downwards into an ocean of deep black peaceful bliss. He was calm as if he no longer had a care in the world, but a part of him, hidden deep in the well of his soul was screaming.
As this part of him drifted further into the black, he stood. Multiple streams of the black fog flew into the air like an endless flock of tiny birds before turning down and into his people.
He stood motionless as the true weapon the Thalmiir had wrought was unleashed on the people he’d sworn to protect. All of his rage and his worry disappeared and then he was simply a soldier, ready to obey orders.
40
Gryph felt helpless as the abyssal terror rushed towards the ranks of elves. The demon had transformed due to Wick’s upgrades, its newfound strength on horrific display as it rammed into the first rank of defenders. Screams of pain and terror carried over the water thrumming into Gryph’s heart and tearing at his soul.
Arrows imbued with streaks of mystical energy lanced upwards, punching into the demon’s mystical shield with concussive waves of force. While the shield endured the attack, several of the arrows got past the demon’s defenses. Avernerius’ rage filled roars drowned out the clang of steel and the screams of dying men and Gryph knew the elves had done the demon some damage. He turned to Wick.
“How is Avernerius still here? You died?”
The gnome shrugged and Gryph glared. With a deep sigh Wick tried to explain. “I can’t be sure, but chthonic summons are essentially complicated contracts between two sentient beings. My guess is that once ol’ flaming horny head got brainwashed by the black fog, it negated his ability to abide by the terms of the contract. He no longer has free will so he cannot fulfill his side of the contract and maybe until he does he is stuck in the mortal realm. Mind you, I’ve never heard of anything like this, so that’s only a guess.” Wick looked terrified at the concept. “Whatever the black fog is, it must be incredibly powerful to interfere with the power of a chthonic bond.”
“Could Myrthendir use the fog to invade the chthonic realm?”
“Without knowing how chthonic beings work, I cannot say,” Grimliir said.
“That is literally the worst thing that could ever happen, ever,” Wick said. “The abyss is a world of barely contained malevolence. It would have consumed all the other Realms long ago if the Chthonic Lords had ever stopped fighting each other and created a unified front. One mind with complete control of the abyss is something too terrible to consider.” Wick’s purple skin grew paler. “Way to make a dude feel more awful. Thanks for that.”
“We need to get down there now.”
Wick looked down to most the warborn army still standing in organized ranks on the beach. There was plenty of space for Gryph and the gang to reach the bridge ahead of them, but then they’d be stuck between two sets of enemies.
“And do what, exactly.”
Gryph watched as Avernerius tore into the elvish lines wrecking bodies and trampling men. “Can you regain control of him?”
“I barely have control of him on the best of days, but now… no way in hell.”
“Xeg can control giant flame brain demon, no problem.”
“Quit lying you little bastard,” Wick said.
“Xeg no lie, well not now time. Other stuff…” The imp’s voice faded to a mumble.
“You sure?” Gryph said and stared at the imp.
“You cannot possibly trust him?” Wick sputtered.
“Yeah, no trust Xeg most times, but trust this time, promise am good for trustiness. This time.”
“I say trust little red man. I like little red man,” Errat said. Xeg grinned exposing a wide mouth full of far too many teeth and Errat grinned back.
“You don’t get a vote,” Wick grumbled. Errat’s face fell, and he looked to Gryph, who held out a hand to stall any further complaints. He looked down at Wick and the gnome shrugged. “Guess we have nothing to lose, except our lives, and mine is measured in hours, so what the hell.”
Gryph gripped his small friend by the shoulder. “Let’s make those hours count.”
Wick looked at Grimliir clad in his automaton like armor. “On the slight chance we live through the next ten minutes can this Crucible thing of yours prevent me from dying?”
“I cannot say for certain. The Crucible captures the souls of fallen warriors who’d pledged to serve the Alliance even after death.” He gave a sideways glance at Errat, and for the first time Gryph wondered who the massive warborn had been in his last life. “Given time, I may be able to alter the parameters to bind your soul to your body.”
“Well that sounds promising,” Wick said, a small smile crossing his lips.
“It could also fail and trap your soul in a formless limbo between the Realms.”
The gnome scowled at the Thalmiir and then looked up at Gryph. “So, since I’m the one most sure to die today, I want first crack at kicking Myrthendir in the nutbag.”
“You’re obsessed with violence against testicles, you know that,” Gryph said with a grin.
Wick feigned punching said nuts. “I like to turn my weaknesses into strengths. I could also head butt them.”
“Xeg tired of slack jawed goobers blabbing dumb nonsense.” His hands swirled with chthonic fire and he jumped onto Wick’s head. For a moment the gnome complained, but then
the imp grabbed his head in both hands and poured flames into it.
Gryph freaked out, but realized Wick was laughing and gave his purple skinned friend an odd smile. A moment later the flames stopped.
“You okay?” Gryph asked.
“Yeah, it tickles,” Wick said, giggling.
“Why the hell did he do that?”
“I’ve gone through a few changes since we last talked.”
Gryph looked his purple scaled friend up and down. “Yah think?”
“Xeg go now.” With that the imp disappeared in a puff of sulfuric smoke.
“Well okay then,” Gryph said and saw a tiny puff of crimson fire explode above Avernerius’ head. Xeg grabbed the abyssal terror by the horns and for the merest of moments the giant demon stopped its forward momentum and shook as if wracked by a massive seizure. Xeg held onto the beast’s horns and Gryph could not help but think it was the strangest rodeo he’d ever seen. The spasms stopped, and a silence hung over the lake. It lasted mere moments before the demon roared and swung its sword through the ranks of warborn, sweeping them aside like a farmer scything wheat.
Wick’s mouth hung open. “I cannot believe that worked.”
Gryph toggled open his Adventure Party window and added Wick, Errat and Xeg to the party. He tried to extend the party to Ovrym and then Tifala but received the same error message both times.
You have failed to add a member to your Adventure Party.
Beings under the mental control of another cannot be added to an Adventure Party.
“Dammit.” On a whim he tried adding Avernerius.
You have failed to add a member to your Adventure Party.
Beings under the sway of chthonic fealty cannot be added to an Adventure Party.
Gryph had no time to contemplate what chthonic fealty was as he extended the invitation to Grimliir and his perk Telepathic Bond connected his mind to those of the Adventure Party. Gryph recoiled a bit at the alien feel of the imp’s brain but regained his composure. Evidently, the snarky imp was willing to let Gryph lead, for now.
Gryph ran towards the bridge, but then realized that every step he took resulted in the rest of the warborn army taking a step as well. He skidded to a halt and Wick ran into him. The army stopped as well.
“They’ll reach the bridge before we do and cut us off.”
“So what do we do?”
Xeg, can you port us onto the bridge?
Only take three can Xeg. Big clank clank have too big metal. No can port.
“I can get there on my own,” Grimliir said and leapt into the air. Jets of flame pushed the metal clad dwarf into a high arc that would land him at the edge of Myrthendir’s forces.
“Um, Gryph, not sure that’s …” Wick began, but then the stench of sulfur announced the imp was back. He placed one hand on Gryph, the other on Errat and then smacked Wick in the face with his tail before wrapping it around the gnome’s neck. “… Hey.”
The world bent and for the briefest of moments Gryph not only saw, but felt, the chthonic realm. Sweat poured from him as a roasting wave of hot air roiled over his skin. The stench followed, sulfur mixed with methane and something worse that Gryph could not identify. A fierce itching, like the bites of a thousand fire ants, crawled over his skin. He opened his mouth to scream and then the world folded again, and they were all standing on the bridge.
Gryph fell to his knees and fought the queasiness threatening to empty his stomach.
“That was invigorating,” Wick said with a grin.
Errat just stood, no sign of any distress on his face. He reached down to help Gryph to his feet and then looked to Xeg. “Can we do that again some time?” Xeg grinned at the large warborn.
Grimliir landed with a clang of metal on stone a few feet away from them.
“Hurry ugly dumb heads. Many more handsome baldies come for you.”
Gryph spun to see the warborn on the beach sprinting towards them. They would be overtaken in minutes. “We can’t stay here.” He turned back towards Sylvan Aenor as streams of the black fog surged skyward and pummeled into the rangers. “We need to move, now.”
Gryph looked down the length of the causeway and saw Myrthendir standing rigid amidst the chaos, staring straight at Gryph. Ovrym, Tifala and Barrendiel all stood behind the one-time Prince Regent, calm and mindless slaves amidst the terror of battle.
The aberrant traitor locked eyes with Gryph, a horribly placid grin on his face, and then turned his back to him, fist raised high. The warborn carrying the adamantine cube marched, but Tifala and Ovrym stayed behind, staring straight at Gryph and his fellows.
“Tif,” Wick said in a desperate tone. Gryph placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder and the small man looked up at him, tears brimming in his eyes. “Promise me we won’t hurt her.”
“Even if it means my life,” Gryph said.
“Xeg help save pretty lady too. Push blue-haired midget or tall pointy head if must to save but save will.”
“Um, thanks,” Wick said with a grimace.
A war cry flowed over the lake and drew their gaze. The elves were roaring defiance and smashing swords against breast plates. Arrows and spells launched into the warborn, killing several of the cube bearers. As they fell more replaced them and the cube continued its inexorable journey towards the far shore.
Swirls of black fog zipped in and out of the box, corrupting more rangers, paladins and casters. Those taken by the weapon turned on their comrades, killing them without emotion or regret. The free rangers pulled back, under the command of Gartheniel the half elf Steward. They did their best to slow the advance of their brothers turned foes without killing them.
Gryph watched as Myrthendir strode forward with confident ease, his ever-growing army of enslaved soldiers parting to let him pass like the Red Sea before Moses. Each step the traitorous elf lord took put more combatants between him and them.
Myrthendir stopped and looked up. Gryph followed the angle of his gaze to the Spire, the dead empyrean tree, that had once illuminated the valley, bringing peace and ease to all its residents. His mind flew back to a conversation he’d had with Barrendiel the first time he’d laid eyes on the tree the El’Edryn had called Aurvendiel.
Some can no longer say her name, the ranger captain had told him. They refer to her as the Spire. Others believe someday she will be rejuvenated, and that day will mark the beginning of a new epoch in the history of the Realms.
But you do not believe that? Gryph had asked.
I am a realist, Barrendiel had replied. Losing Aurvendiel was a terrible blow to our people. Without her light the El’Edryn devolved into the various elven races that now populate the rest of Korynn. We who live in her shadow still cling to what we once were, but soon we too will no longer be El’Edryn.
Bile rose in Gryph’s throat and he knew that he was missing something. Control of Sylvan Aenor was only a step to Myrthendir’s goal, not the goal itself. Which means there was something he wanted more than an army of warborn and elves.
What if Myrthendir was not a realist? What if he had discovered a way to bring the tree Aurvendiel back to life? The influence his aberrant mind could have on the once mighty tree and the epoch it would bring to the Realms was too terrible to consider.
Gryph’s eyes snapped from Myrthendir to his army and then back to his own pathetic force. He hated to kill people who were not responsible for their actions, but he knew casualties were inevitable.
He turned to the imp, resting on Errat’s shoulder. “Xeg, can Avernerius clear a path for us?”
The imp grinned again and disappeared in another flash of crimson flames. A second later he was back atop Avernerius, steering the demon via its horns like some insane puppet master. The abyssal terror roared and swung its magma blade back and forth in slow deadly arcs. Warborn fell, burnt and screaming. The demon lumbered forward as dozens of arbalest bolts flew at him.
This time the demon did not, or could not, raise its magical shield and most the bolts fo
und their mark. Most ricocheted off of the magma plates that protruded from the demon’s skin, but some found the small gaps between the plates. The demon didn’t pay them any heed as Xeg turned it towards the arbalest wielders.
The massive hellbeast moved like a cat hacking up a hairball, but then a stream of magma flew from its mouth, dousing the closest group in molten rock. Those who were lucky instantly turned to spots of oily soot, while the unlucky had limbs melted away, living long enough for their screams to flow over the Deep Water.
Gryph ran, and the others followed. Soon they were behind the demon, wary of its cloven hooves. We need to get to Myrthendir, Gryph thought at the others and sidestepped a claymore blow from one of the warborn. Gryph activated Counter Attack and Impale and his spear bit into the warborn’s side, slicing between the plates of thick armor. The massive man grunted and swung again. Gryph used Dodge and ducked under the clumsy blow, spinning his spear and jamming it into the creature’s neck.
He activated Analyze.
Warborn: Level 15 - H:280/S:320/M:180/SP:180
Warborn are the epitome of Thalmiir artifice. These bipedal automatons are unlike any other creation built by the ancient High Dwarves as they possess souls offered in tribute by the fallen warriors of the Alliance.
While they are incredibly tough warriors, they are naïve and raw, unformed as individuals and as a people. They will obey the commands of whoever wears the Iron Crown.
Strengths: Unknown Immunities: Unknown: Weaknesses: Unknown.
Unformed as individuals and a people? Gryph looked back at Errat, who nodded, his face full of grim regret. We will help them if we can Errat, I promise, Gryph sent.
I will dedicate my life to it, Grimliir added, even as he sliced a warborn’s arm off with his reciprocating blade.
Wick was keeping a mesmerized ranger at bay with chthonic bolts, while Errat turned his axe against another of his brothers. They were holding their own, but a quick glance back towards Dar Thoriim showed Gryph the warborn reinforcements would soon overtake them.
