Exodus of Gnomes (God Core #2) - A Dungeon Core LitRPG

by Demi Harper

  I sensed Gneil was, too, though that may have had something to do with the fact that General Hoppit was watching. The young gnome laughed especially hard when my high cleric ended up knocked on his backside. Apparently, trying to put boots on a badger was crossing a line even Helga would not tolerate.

  I smiled as my new general helped Gneil to his feet and brushed dirt off his toga, though the warm fuzzies were somewhat dampened by the constantly blinking timer in the corner of my vision.

  Time remaining for Exodus: 20 days, 9 hours, 35 minutes

  I pushed it from my mind and tried to continue basking in the glow of our little victories, but a sudden burst of flame several meters away had the gnomes jumping and reaching fearfully for their weapons.

  Damn it, Benin.

  True to his word, the mage only left my Sphere after asking my permission. Each day he and Bekkit would go off on their own, ostensibly to train. I still didn’t quite trust them, but Benin did seem to be mastering quite a few new abilities, and they rarely went far enough away that we couldn’t still see or hear them most of the time.

  My denizens quickly recognized that the fire was no cause for concern, but my good mood was ruined. Another burst of flame stoked the uneasiness I’d been feeling ever since the dire badger incident. Though the creatures were now firmly part of our tribe, the memory of their earlier behavior still unnerved me. Something had been driving them, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being watched. And Benin’s fireworks would only make us easier to track.

  Am I being paranoid?

  It was impossible not to worry, especially with so much at stake. We were now over halfway through the exodus—officially past the point of no return. Not only had we yet to reach the forest’s edge and sight the mountains that supposedly housed our destination, we’d also failed to find an alternative refuge en route. Though the forest held animal burrows aplenty, it was surprisingly lacking in the extensive-tunnel-systems-with-cozy-caves department. Without having found a backup option, the pressure to reach our new home was weighing more heavily than ever.

  20 days, 9 hours, 20 minutes…

  20 days, 9 hours, 19 minutes…

  Even the forest itself seemed to conspire against us. The undergrowth grasped at wheels, paws and booted feet alike; the surrounding plants and trees were growing thicker and spikier, and the gradually sloping ground was definitely getting damper, almost marshy in places. I hoped the wagon upgrades—not to mention the gnomes’ morale—would be strong enough to withstand whatever new challenges awaited us.

  20 days, 9 hours, 4 minutes…

  It shouldn’t get much rougher than this. We’ll be out on the other side any day.

  20 days, 9 hours, 3 minutes…

  We’re through the worst of it now.

  20 days, 9 hours, 2 minutes…

  Right?

  Forty-One

  Stay on Topic, Old Man

  Tiri

  In Search of Immortality: A Treatise on Elves and the Art of Soul-Shifting by Ar’bek Kitt.

  Of all the books Tiri had browsed up till now, this one definitely had the most encouraging title. Who better to consult about God Cores than the race that purportedly invented them?

  After discovering Varnell’s secret study, Tiri had decided to make the best of her time trapped in the underground Librarinth while she waited for the Guildmaster’s return. Once an entire day passed, though, she was forced to acknowledge that she needed a new plan.

  Slowly, painstakingly, she’d retraced her steps, unraveling thread from her jacket to map her route and guide her back here. There was no assassin waiting for her when she emerged in the burned-out office of the late Professor Knox. The hallway outside had been roped off, and Tiri was able to use the secret passage to return to the Librarinth again and again. She’d have been a fool not to. With such a wealth of knowledge surrounding her, who knew what sort of lost lore she might uncover?

  However, despite her current book’s promising title, it soon became apparent that its writer—this ‘Ar’bek Kitt’—was fixated upon some ancient conspiracy theory surrounding the death of an elven deity. Tiri sighed as she turned the page to find yet more pointless equivocating.

  “Naturally, we are all aware of the tales of the night elves’ ‘wickedness’—a trait believed by many to be racially inherent, and embodied in the figure of their deity: Garim R’ok, the Tyrant of Darkness. Yet in spite of the innumerable accounts by (no doubt prejudiced) elvish historians convinced of precisely the opposite, this humble dragon is of the opinion—”

  Tiri frowned down at the page, thinking the weak light of her chemsphere had conspired with the tiredness of her own eyes to play tricks on her. But no, the scholar really had just referred to himself as a dragon.

  After a moment’s consideration, she shrugged wearily. Eccentricity was something of a requisite for becoming a noted scholar, after all, along with age and obsession. The three together had produced… interesting results over the centuries, and it appeared Ar’bek Kitt was no different.

  “—this humble dragon is of the opinion that the Lord of Light’s disappearance was not, in fact, a consequence of betrayal by his night elf allies—”

  She stopped again, this time narrowing her eyes at the word “allies.” Light elves and dark elves – or night elves, as this old scholar called them – were the bitterest of enemies; even the densest novice in the guild knew that, and Tiri was neither dense nor a novice.

  Shaking her head at this outlandish—and, she was beginning to suspect, senile—writer, she skeptically read on.

  “—the Lord of Light’s disappearance was not, in fact, a consequence of betrayal by his night elf allies (though such an act would certainly suit the prevailing narrative around that reclusive and much-maligned sub-race). Archaeological excavations of the site known as Bone Gorge reveal a very different picture: a cluster of night elf skeletons (identifiable by their size, obviously, as well as their low bone density, a result of their sunless existence) surrounded by the remains of several hundred light elves—almost certainly warriors, given the evidence of previous injuries upon so many of the bones.

  “In situ, the radius of encircling light elves is said to span almost a league. How could their destruction have possibly been instigated by a lesser force that was clearly so vastly outnumbered?”

  Hmm.

  All right. That was interesting.

  Not only were historical instances of night elves venturing to the surface rare enough for a three-toed sloth to count on one hand and still have fingers to spare, the Bone Gorge site was inaccessible and had been for centuries, thanks to its unfortunate location at the heart of what was now the Sythvan Empire. That this writer, deranged as he seemed, knew enough of the site to have either visited it himself or been in contact with someone who had was astounding to say the least.

  Why in the stacks is Guildmaster Varnell keeping this hidden down here?

  Even as she asked herself the question, her tired mind belatedly made the connection between the “Lord of Light” mentioned in Lila’s journal and this light elf deity’s moniker. That was not something she’d expected to find in an old book by a rambling (and apparently delusional) academic.

  But the elven gods died centuries ago—well before Varnell’s time. It can’t be the same Lord of Light. Though this account does refer to his “disappearance” rather than “death”…

  Intrigued, she read on.

  “To understand the scope of this quandary, we must first consider the writings of Qarinas. In his Essays on the Nature of Existence—"

  “Gah! Stay on topic, old man,” muttered Tiri. She rolled her eyes and scanned the rest of the page, but Ar’bek Kitt had apparently forgotten all about the subject of the Bone Gorge’s secrets in favor of a dull philosophical digression.

  A few pages later, she too had forgotten her curiosity about long-dead gods and was once more simply searching for something—anything—relevant to the book’s actual title.<
br />
  What is it with these historians? Bearded old men—and bearded old women, probably—whose inflated sense of importance and love of their own voices had somehow translated to the written word, all the better to torment poor innocent academics centuries later.

  The ponderous texts were not the only thing making her irritated. The fact that this treasure trove of knowledge had been sitting unused for so long—directly beneath the feet of those best equipped to utilize it, no less—had been filling her with a growing sense of outrage in the hours since she’d first discovered the place. Its existence was a wonder, and its concealment was a travesty—no, a crime. Knowledge was power; a thing to be shared with the guild, not hoarded, though this library’s jealous guardian clearly felt differently.

  As though being master of the northern Adventurers’ Guild wasn’t enough for him.

  She flipped to the next page with more force than intended, and the ancient paper announced its objection with a soft tearing sound. She froze in horror.

  What am I doing?

  Talking to herself? Disrespecting the words of ancient scholars? And now vandalizing priceless Guild property out of nothing more than her own impatience? She shook her head. This behavior wasn’t like her at all.

  I blame Benin and Coll.

  The pair were definitely a bad influence. Though she could hardly blame them for her current situation given that they were several leagues distant right now. Or at least they should be.

  I hope they’re all right.

  She felt a pang of guilt. She’d almost forgotten about them and the gnomes in the midst of her investigations into Varnell.

  She was still reeling from her earlier revelation. The Guildmaster is a warlock.

  Unlike mages, warlocks had no innate spellcasting talent. Tiri knew little about it except that warlocks had to make a pact with a powerful magical being in order to gain their abilities, which were usually granted over time in exchange for fulfilling their patron’s wishes. It sounded to Tiri’s pragmatic mind a lot like the relationship between a cleric and their god, except warlocks had a much more unsavory reputation.

  Making pacts with demons will do that.

  Shaking her head to clear it, she apologetically stroked the page she’d just torn. Closing the book, she returned it carefully to its shelf and selected another. A little puff of dust accompanied this one as it slid free of its fellows, making Tiri sneeze. Though she knew she was alone down here, she still caught herself glancing around to make sure no one had heard.

  Something about this place kept her on edge. Though she’d been coming down here for weeks now, she still felt as though something were watching her—which was, of course, ridiculous. The Librarinth was empty.

  Then someone cleared their throat, breaking the dusty silence.

  The blood in Tiri’s veins turned to ice.

  Someone’s here. What should I do? What should I do?!

  She forced herself to keep calm and consider what her friends would do in her situation.

  Coll would give away his presence with a nervous fart. Then he’d probably smash the stranger’s head in with his hammer. Benin would set fire to the entire place and run away. Neither was a strategy she particularly wished to emulate.

  Lila, though…

  “Assess your surroundings,” she pictured the ranger saying. “The only thing more dangerous than inaction is acting blind.”

  A quick glance over at Varnell’s study area confirmed that the wall-mounted chemspheres remained unlit, the door at the top of the stair still closed. If she did indeed have company, it hadn’t triggered the chemspheres, which meant it was either microscopically small, or incorporeal.

  A ghost?

  She silently scoffed at the thought, even as her academic’s mind began formulating questions to ask this hypothetical spirit.

  “Hello?” Her voice sounded small, as though the dust and paper around her swallowed all sound.

  “Hello?” she said again, louder this time. Her voice rang out across the seemingly empty expanse of the old library.

  She waited, feeling more and more foolish with each moment that passed.

  Did I imagine it? Her logical mind railed against the idea. I couldn’t have imagined it. But—

  “Hello!”

  Tiri started violently and spun around. It had sounded as though the voice were right behind her, but there was nobody there.

  “Are you quite all right, miss?” asked the voice, now up near the ceiling. “Your pulse appears to be racing in an unhealthy way, and your eyes look about to pop out.”

  The voice was unquestionably the same one she’d heard talking to Varnell weeks before. “Where are you?”

  “Everywhere. And nowhere.”

  She sighed. “Helpful.”

  “But if you would prefer something to focus on while we converse, I am over here.”

  The voice guided her back over to Varnell’s study area.

  “Warmer… warmer… stop!”

  She found herself standing directly in front of the pedestal that held the creepy demonic bust. The statue’s eyes stared blankly. The monstrous face was completely inert, yet her skin prickled at its proximity.

  She folded her arms. “You expect me to believe you’re a talking statue?”

  “Am I not?”

  The voice did now seem to be coming from the stone head.

  Fine. Be that way.

  “Gardos, was it?” She forced herself to sound casual, as though greeting an acquaintance at a dinner party rather than an unseen entity in a dungeon. Not that she’d ever been to a dinner party.

  “Indeed!” The voice sounded quite delighted. “I wasn’t sure you’d remember. It’s been a while since you eavesdropped on my conversation with yon master of the guild. I must admit I was surprised to see you return—and so frequently!”

  She hardly had time to be shocked and outraged that it had been watching her all this time, for it was still talking.

  “I’d had you pegged as a goody-goody scholar. Wrong place, wrong time, and all that. Yet here you are, breaking all the rules and continuing to defy your so-called betters. If I had a hat, I’d take it off to you.”

  “That can be arranged.” Tiri eyed the marble bust. “Would you like me to measure you?”

  “And cover up these magnificent horns? ‘Twould be a veritable crime.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Mm-hmm. How did you know I was here that time? I was hidden while the two of you were talking.” A terrible thought hit her. “Does Varnell know I’ve been here, too?”

  “As I said, young miss. I am everywhere.” She jumped as the voice seemed to whisper directly into her ear. “And nowhere.” Back in the statue, it said, “Fear not. The master learns of nothing I do not wish for him to find out.”

  “It almost sounds as though Varnell isn’t the master here.”

  “It does sound that way, doesn’t it?” the voice agreed pleasantly.

  “Are you his patron?”

  Her interlocutor tutted. “Come, now. You know I am not. In fact, though you may not quite realize it yet, I believe you’re beginning to formulate your own suspicions as to the identity of that particular entity.” The voice paused, then laughed. “Hah. I’m a poet, and… I didn’t even know I was rhyming those words. But it happened anyway.”

  “Remarkable. What do you mean about his patron’s identity?”

  “You’re the one who’s been reading Arb’ek Kitt. You tell me.”

  I’m talking to a statue, she realized. What have I become?

  Out loud, she said, “First, tell me who—or what—you are.”

  “I am Gardos. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Tiriani Moon.”

  How does he know my name?

  “Stop trying to distract me.” She congratulated herself on how calm she sounded, despite this entire scenario starting to unnerve her more and more. “Even at the Academy we’re taught never to trust something if we can’t see where it keeps its brain.”

&n
bsp; “Sound advice.” Was it her imagination, or did she detect a hint of wariness in the voice? She pushed on.

  “Isn’t it? Tell me, Gardos.” She took a step closer to the plinth. “If I were to break open those ‘magnificent horns’ of yours, would I find your brain? Or would I find something else?”

  There was no reply.

  “Only one way to find out, I suppose.” She reached out as if to push the statue off its pedestal.

  “I assure you there’s no need to break anything,” said the voice. “Though I’m sure your friend Collson would be impressed by your barbaric threats.”

  “Does this mean you’re going to give me a straight answer?” she asked, hands still poised just inches away from the stone bust.

  “Why tell you when I can show you?”

  She frowned.

  “Lift me up. Go on.”

  Gardos’s sudden willingness was a little suspicious, but picking up the statue wouldn’t do her any more harm than smashing it. She shrugged, placed a hand beneath each of the protruding stone horns, and lifted.

  It was much lighter than she’d anticipated. She almost overbalanced, stumbling back a few steps with the statue in her hands before she registered the thing still sitting on the plinth.

  The demonic bust was light because it was hollow. It was hollow because it had been hiding… this.

  “Well? What do you think of me, miss? Am I pretty?”

  Gardos was no more than six inches high. Smoky gray in color and roughly oval in shape, his multifaceted surface glinted dimly in the light from Tiri’s chemsphere, revealing hints of swirling shadows deep within.

  Gardos wasn’t a ghost or a demon.