by C. M. Carney
I want to burst from the shadows and deliver my judgment, upon them both. Instead my love for her stays my hand. Soon she disappears from view, but she is not my quarry today. My vengeful eyes snap up to the human man, still smiling after my sister, gloating in his conquest. I glare my hatred from the shadows and watch his smile dim as some primal survival instinct pulls at the edge of his awareness, stealing a bit his joy. The man looks around, shivers and retreats into his house easing the door shut.
Fury boils inside me and I rush forward, blocking the door with my boot. The shocked man squeaks in surprise and I split his nose with my first punch, knocking several teeth loose with a spray of blood. He goes down and I can see the fear and pain push to the surface through his confusion.
“Kroofer, stop,” he begs through a broken jaw, mutilating the proud name given me by my father.
“So, you know who I am,” I say, and stop beating him long enough for him to nod. I pummel my first into his face again, thankful that my long years of battle have given me true dwarven strength. Something crunches under my fist and he goes limp, his nose askew and broken. I punch him several more times before letting him flop to the floor. His body twitches and his bowels release. As I watch his life leave him I smile. His weakness has proven him unworthy of my sister.
I turn and leave, ducking once more into the shadows. No one sees me leave and they do not discover him until the morning. They come to question me, and it galls me that I must lie. I resist the fell mind powers of the Diviner. I feel both powerful and ashamed at this. My will is stronger than hers, but I feel like a coward for hiding behind lies. I want nothing more than to scream my actions to the mountains and the rocks, but this is just the beginnings of my plans. I keep quiet to secure my destiny.
They bury the man with honors as if he were a great hero fallen in battle. My sister weeps and refuses my embrace. She knows it was me though she does not want to believe it. I will show her. I will show them all. No man will stay my hand. No elf shall further pollute my culture. No dwarf will keep me from my destiny. I will bring a new age upon Korynn, the age of the dwarf.
*****
The world shifted again and Gryph was himself once more. He would have collapsed to the ground had the beam of light not held him fast. He felt stained by the experience and wanted nothing more than to exorcize the foul hatred, but he dared not vomit now. Doing so would show weakness.
Gryph heard Krovoor rage near him, and though he could not turn his head to see the dwarf, he knew the uncovered truths they had all experienced had incensed him. His voice became rage. “I am the slayer of Wogbohr the Giant. I am the ravager of the goblin stronghold of Plehboks. I am the leader of the Bloodborne Clan. Yet it is this memory that ye pull from my mind. This is how ye choose to judge me?”
“We did not choose this moment, Krovoor, son of Dangmaar,” the younger Long Beard said, his voice cold. “You did. Deep in the recesses of your mind you know that this moment defines your true nature more than any other.”
Krovoor spat an unintelligible string of vitriol before the elder female Long Beard waved her hand. “I tire of your voice.” Krovoor went mute, and the Long Beards turned to Gryph.
Once again, the Heart of the Mountain shimmered and echoed and Gryph felt a wave of memories flow over him. He blew out birthday candles when he was ten. Felt the embrace of a woman in a tent in the desert. Laughed and ran with Brynn. Held back tears as he hugged his frail mother for the last time. As it had before, the maelstrom settled upon one moment.
Gryph relived that moment as if it were happening again.
*****
The chill bites into my bones as I rush towards the gunfire. It is not enemy guns that I hear. At first, that comforts me, but then my instincts push their way to the fore of my mind, and I realize it is friendly fire. What are they firing at?
I move through the village. Bombed out shells of buildings poke from the ground like the broken bones of a long dead giant. I signal my men to spread out, ready to obey my orders, but I already know that what happens next will be my doing and my doing alone.
I know what I will see before I do. American soldiers slaughtering civilians. I know this because I have seen it already. I have been tracking this group for days and I have seen their handy work. Women, children and the elderly murdered and dumped in mass graves. My orders are to find these men and stop them, by any means necessary.
If that was all I knew then this would be easy, but I know more. I know these men, these killers are not responsible for their action. I know that something has driven them mad. I know that they've been experimented upon, given treatments by their own government, treatments designed to make them the perfect killing machines. I know that they too are victims.
I round the corner just as the ragged American soldiers unleash another volley into the naked, unarmed civilians. A dozen bodies fall into the pit and I hear whooping laughter. The soldiers line up more wretched souls at the edge of the death pits. Their eyes are vacant and empty. Terror has driven away all resistance.
The men fire again, and I know my government’s experiment has worked. It has worked too well. The men truly responsible for this carnage, men that sit in offices filling papers and sending emails, will never face justice for their actions. As I raise my rifle, hand to trigger I know that I too will not face the justice I deserve.
I pull the trigger, as do my men, and a dozen American soldiers, some too young to have a beer, fall to the frozen ground, bleeding out in the cold of a brutal Korean winter. I know this will mean the end of my military career. I know they will deny any responsibility. The only way my men and I will see another day is by keeping what we have seen, what we have done locked away in our hearts and our minds.
I have killed my brothers and my sisters. I am as responsible as those others and like them I know I will never face the justice I deserve. The secret must be kept. The lies must be maintained. Time passes and I try to forget, try to make amends, but I know I never will, know that I never can. I dive into a dark world of intrigue, murder and secrets, hoping I can bury my secrets. I fail.
*****
This time as Gryph returned to his body, he did not fight the acid churn of nausea in his belly, but he did stop himself from vomiting. He wanted to curl into a ball and hide from the world, but the shaft of solid light still holds him fast. He stood, muscles burning and shaking, trying to force the memories back into the deep and the dark. He failed.
The beam of light blinked out and Gryph fell to the floor and rolled onto his side. He could hear Krovoor chuckling darkly and knew that the dwarf had experienced his memories just as Gryph had his. What kind of man reacts to that memory with laughter? As Gryph stood on unsteady feet, he got his answer.
“This coward cannot lead our people?” Krovoor bellowed pointing his hammer at the Long Beards. “He kills his own to protect the enemy and is haunted by his failures. He is weak and sentimental. End this farce now and I will take my birthright and lead our people to greatness.” Krovoor slammed the butt of his hammer onto the stone floor and it echoed around the massive chamber.
The elder female Long Beard looked at Gryph. “And you Gryph, Son of Quinn, do you have any last words before we cast judgement?”
Gryph lowered his head and sighed. “When I was younger, I’d hoped those memories would fade, but they never did, and I now understand they never will. I count this not as a curse, but as a blessing. To face one’s greatest failure is to see what manner of man you are.”
Silence hung heavy as the inscrutable Long Beards looked down on Gryph and Krovoor. If they debated amongst themselves, they did so silently. After several minutes the elder rheumy eyed Long Beard stood and spoke.
“We, the Long Beards, the chosen spirits of Thalmiir and dwarf alike have come to a decision. Stand and hear our judgment. Around them the millions ascendant dwarf souls rose as one.
16
A trickle of sweat ran down Gryph’s back as he awaited the Judgement of
the Long Beards. A part of his mind played over the absurdity of this situation. Finn Caldwell could have never imagined that one day he would stand in an otherworldly afterlife of a mythical people awaiting judgement for his past actions.
But here he was, and he knew if he failed here, it would be Brynn who paid the price. He knew Krovoor would not allow him to go free. Gryph knew the dwarf’s dark secret. If he lost the judgement, he would rot in a cell deep in Dar Thoriim’s depths, if he were lucky. If he lost, he would never find Brynn. He would never save Brynn.
Finally, the Long Beards announced their judgement.
“We, the Long Beards, ancient ancestor spirits of the Thalmiir and the dwarves, name Gryph, Son of Quinn as the rightful lord of Dar Thoriim. Rule with strength and wisdom.” He slammed his hammer down on the arm of his throne and a prompt popped into Gryph’s vision.
You have won The Challenge of the Long Beards.
You have earned 250,000 XP.
You are deemed worthy by the Long Beards, the ancient spirits of the dwarves and are now the consecrated Stone Lord of Dar Thoriim. This is both an honor and a burden. Rule fairly. Rule well.
The booming echo of the Long Beard’s final hammer still rang through the Heart of the Mountain as the circle of inlaid metal expanded up and around Gryph and Krovoor. Reality shimmered and Gryph once again stood in the Nexus.
He barely had the time to register being back when a searing pain burned into both of his shoulders. He fell to his knees, tearing away his shirt. Two circular brands of intricately carved runes had burned themselves onto the top of each of his arms. He could smell the flesh charring, but a moment later both pain and the stench disappeared. Shocked, he looked at one arm and then the other. Instead of ragged burned flesh he saw well healed brands as if years had passed. Focusing on the brands triggered his Identify talent.
You have been awarded the Brands of the Stone Lord.
The Long Beards have awarded you with paired Mystical Brands (one on each shoulder) as symbols of your sovereignty over the ancient city of Dar Thoriim. The intricately woven runes represent the various aspects of dwarven life. Individually they grant the bearer great powers. Combined they are tools of wondrous possibility.
The Hammer (Left Shoulder): The Hammer represents strength and forbearance and provides the bearer with the following bonuses, powers and abilities.
• +5 to Constitution.
• +5 to Strength.
• +50% Immunity to Disease and Poisons.
• +25% Health and Stamina Regeneration while underground.
The Forge (Right Shoulder): The Forge represents knowledge and wisdom and provides the bearer with the following bonuses, powers and abilities.
• +5 to Intelligence.
• +5 to Wisdom.
• +5 levels to your Leadership Skill.
• +25% Mana and Spirit Regeneration while underground.
Together these Brands are the symbol of your leadership of Dar Thoriim. As long as you keep the respect of your people the following benefit(s) remain yours.
Tithe of the People: 0.01% (per level of Dar Thoriim’s progression) of all XP earned by the citizens of Dar Thoriim is transferred to you each week as a tithe. Your leadership and protection provide your citizens with a safe place to live, work and raise families. The tithe is their way of thanking you for your sacrifices on their behalf. As your city and your people grow, so will you.
The nausea induced by Gryph’s transfer between realms nearly made Gryph vomit, but he forced his stomach to calm. Grimliir was at Gryph’s side helping him to his feet. One of Krovoor’s thugs moved to help him, but Krovoor pushed the man away.
“Keep ya filthy mitts off me ye scabrous bastard!” the shamed dwarf zealot bellowed. He stood, eyes raging at Gryph. “Ye cheated me ye beardless pansy.” The livid dwarf pulled his hammer from his back and held it in front of him. A barely audible hum built and the veins on the dwarf’s arms throbbed and thickened as if the man’s body was trying to contain a violent surge in blood pressure.
Gryph watched as the crimson of spilt blood swirled along the man’s veins and rushed into the head of the man’s hammer. He thought he heard distant bellows of anger as the blood energy flared outwards from the dwarf zealot’s hammer.
Before Gryph could process what he was seeing, Krovoor rushed him. Gryph stumbled back, still dizzy from the jarring leap through realms. Oh, this is gonna hurt, he thought, reaching for his spear and knowing he would be too late. At least my respawn point is right here in the Nexus.
A loud clang of metal on metal rang through the room as Krovoor’s hammer came to a sudden and jarring halt mere inches from Gryph’s chest. The twin blades of Grimliir’s axe held the shimmering hammer in the half moon depression formed by the top of the blades. The raging blood energy of Krovoor’s attack swirled around the blades of the axe like a hungry swarm of insects seeking prey, before the axe pulsed white and the crimson energy dissipated with a distant scream.
Krovoor had just enough time to cast a surprised look at Grimliir before a massive metal clad fist knocked out several of his teeth. The dwarf zealot stumbled backwards, arms pinwheeling like a shamed villain in a slapstick comedy. He landed heavily on his backside where he raged like an overturned turtle for a few seconds.
Finally, he regained his feet and glared at Grimliir, who stood in a wide stance, twirling his axe idly in a two-handed grip. “Ye lost ye hateful slagheap. At least try and keep what dignity ye have left.”
Gryph pulled his spear from his back and extended it to its full length and stood next to Grimliir ready to protect the Thalmiir Artificer. He felt a light hand on his arm. “I have this Yer Lordship. He is not worth the water you’d waste in sweat.”
Krovoor roared in snot spraying rage and rushed at Grimliir. The artificer sidestepped Krovoor’s swing and stomped his metal booted foot down onto the side of Krovoor’s knee. The sickening crunch was quickly drowned out by Krovoor’s high-pitched yelp of agony and he went down. Grimliir kneed Krovoor in the chest, knocking him onto his back and before the zealot dwarf could rise again, Grimliir thrust his two headed axe down, securing Krovoor’s neck in the crescent shaped depression between the blades.
“Now be a nice lad and shut yer gob hole,” Grimliir said.
Krovoor’s eyes were mad, all reason lost under a swathe of hateful rage. “Kill them! Kill them all!” Krovoor raged and Grimliir pushed his axe head further down into the man’s windpipe, turning Krovoor’s fury into a strangled gasp of pain.
“I told ye tae cease and desist, ye waste of life wank stain.”
Krovoor’s zealots looked back and forth at each other, but before any decision could lead them to action dozens of earthen tentacles ruptured upwards from the floor and bound all ten. Words of hate and anger flowed from the bound dwarves in an unintelligible mishmash.
Reynglain, the dwarf Earth Mistress walked up, her clenched fist surrounded with a brown aura of earth energy. “Shut yer bampot craws ye idjits. Yer boss be a useless pile of pig droppings and ye lot are the ninnies who follow said pile. Now shush and I won’t crush yer wee baws along with yer ribs.” Her fist clenched and all ten dwarves grimaced as the sound of ribs cracking filled the chamber, but they otherwise stayed quiet.
Gryph walked up to the struggling Krovoor, whose eyes widened as Gryph came into view. The irate dwarf attempted to yell, but Grimliir leaned on the haft of his axe and the words stuck in Krovoor’s throat.
Gryph kneeled next to the dwarf and spoke in a clear voice that carried throughout the Nexus. “You have dishonored yourself and your people Krovoor. The foundation of your claim is built upon a bedrock of your own lies. You are a zealot, a racist, a murderer and a charlatan and there is no place for you among civilized men and women, of any race.”
The snick of Gryph’s dagger being drawn was the only sound in the deathly quiet chamber. Krovoor’s eyes squinted, and he tried to speak. Gryph nodded at Grimliir who let up on his axe just enough for Krovoor to sp
eak.
“Do it ye pale skinned bastard. Kill me and be done with it.”
17
Gryph slapped the dwarf across the face with the blade of his dagger, relishing the humiliation pouring from Krovoor, and grinned. “Dwarves do not kill dwarves, Krovoor. This is the only reason you will not die today.”
“Ye be no dwarf,” Krovoor said, his courage given a temporary boost by his bluster.
“He’s a better dwarf than ye hae ever been ye wonk nosed bastard,” Grimliir said.
Gryph twisted the shining blade close to Krovoor’s eye and then grabbed the dwarf’s beard with his free hand. Krovoor’s eyes widened as he finally realized what was about to happen.
“Krovoor, son of Dangmaar, I Gryph, Stone Lord of Dar Thoriim hereby banish you from this city. So all peoples of Korynn know your crimes I will mark you as a traitor, a murderer, and a betrayer. You will leave this city within the hour. If you do not, you will be hung. If you ever return, you will be hung. This is my Binding Vow to you. If I ever see you again, I will wet my blade with your heart’s blood.”
Gryph drew his blade across the thick hair of Krovoor’s beard and sawed through it. The dwarf traitor howled in agony that was far more than physical, as the very symbol of his identity was shorn from his face. A few spots of blood welled up on his chin as Gryph tugged the beard free. Krovoor wept and howled.
