Omnibus Volume 1

by C. M. Carney

  Gryph inhaled deeply and pretended to be deep in thought. After a moment, he turned to Dirge. "Fine by me," Gryph said in his most casual tone. Dirge smiled. Wick reacted a little worse.

  “You bastard. He got us down here and you’re just gonna leave him to this psycho?”

  Dirge turned on the gnome. “You want to join him? The well has enough room for two if you don’t move around too much.” Wick’s eyes went wide in panic.

  “We need him,” Gryph said. “I’ve seen the things he can do.”

  Dirge thought for a moment and then waved his hand idly. “Fine! But keep him under control or my next sting will be for him.” Dirge nodded his head towards Ovyrm and one of the larger men hefted the fallen xydai onto his shoulder.

  Without another word, Dirge exited the room. Some of his men filed out after him. Others eyed Gryph and Wick warily, waiting for them to leave. Wick glared anger at Gryph before leaving.

  39

  Dirge led them on a circuitous path through the Barrow. Gryph knew the thief was doubling back on purpose in an attempt to prevent Gryph from gaining an accurate feel of the terrain. It would have been a smart tactic, but Gryph’s map auto updated. I wonder, does that only work for players?

  Eventually they emerged into a large cavern. Gryph imagined that in the days when the Barrow had been a tower, it had once been some kind of reception hall. The ceiling was at least thirty feet above their heads. Luminescent moss covered the walls casting a pleasant glow across the small village that dominated the chamber.

  The efficiency of the setup surprised Gryph. Several neat lines of tents filled the cavern. A small brook babbled from the wall and skirted the wall where it fed a small field of plants before disappearing into the far wall. It wasn’t paradise, but one could do worse inside the Barrow. No wonder the Gray Company seemed somewhat content here.

  The men carrying Ovyrm left the main group and brought the paralyzed xydai over to a well in the center of the chamber. They tied a rope around his chest and none too gently dumped him over the side where they lowered him down. Gryph paid only the slightest attention, feeling Dirge’s eyes on him.

  A small grin crossed Dirge’s lips as he led them into a large tent where rows of dilapidated chairs butted up against stone blocks used as tables. He hadn’t been lying. They had their own pub, and while it wouldn’t make any Travel and Leisure top ten lists, it had a certain hominess to it.

  Dirge snapped and held up three fingers. A barman poured two draughts of some brackish amber liquid and placed the gourd cups on the stone bar. Dirge picked up one, and Gryph grabbed another. Wick sat unmoving, silent and fuming. Gryph knew that fear was eating at his friend.

  Gryph placed his hand on the gnome’s shoulder. “We’ll find her, but we need a plan.”

  Wick shrugged Gryph’s hand off and stood. “Make your plans and make them quickly. I will go it alone if I must.” Wick picked up his gourd of beer and threw it across the tent where it smashed against another table spilling the contents. Then he stomped out, came back in and grabbed a wineskin full of the rancid stuff that the barman was pouring.

  “What the hell? You little bastard,” the barman said, but Dirge held up a hand to stop his complaints.

  Wick stared at Gryph with a look of anger and hate that made Gryph’s veins turn to ice. Finally, the gnome turned and stomped out of the tent.

  Dirge laughed, and Gryph felt an intense need to punch the wiry man in the face. Instead Gryph raised his glass to the man in salute.

  “To new friends,” Dirge said, hefting his cup high.

  “To getting out of here,” Gryph countered and clapped his gourd against Dirge’s. The thief nodded and grinned.

  Both men drank, but only Gryph’s faced screwed up in distaste. The liquid may technically be beer, but it was unlike any brew Gryph had ever tasted. Peaty, earthy and sour, the liquid burned as it went down. The aftertaste wasn’t any better, reminding Gryph of rancid meat.

  Dirge laughed. “It takes some getting used to, but it packs a punch.” Dirge indicated a table and waited for Gryph to sit.

  “So tell me about this plan of yours,” Dirge said taking another swig.

  Gryph held out his hand palm up. “First, I need to know the lay of the land.” Dirge stared at Gryph’s hand and then up at him. Gryph could see the man’s mind working. Knowledge was power down here, but there was no logical reason for Dirge to withhold any. After all, they were allies now.

  Reluctantly Dirge placed his hand on top of Gryph’s and Gryph’s mental map expanded with knowledge. Gryph took a moment to examine the map. They seemed to occupy most of the tenth level of the onetime tower. According to Dirge’s information the Barrow King occupied the lowest level, three levels down. The twelfth level was a warren of passages and dead ends filled with red trap icons and numerous enclaves of creatures Dirge had marked as the Dead.

  “The Dead?”

  “As in undead,” Dirge said, questioning Gryph’s blank look. “Where the hell are you from that you haven’t encountered the undead?”

  “I’m new to the area. Can they be killed?”

  Dirge eyed him suspiciously before speaking. “Sure, same as anything else. Hit them hard they’ll eventually go down. Lower level undead like skeletons and zombies are pretty easy. Revenants, spectres, wraiths and the more ethereal dead need silver or magic weapons."

  "Now, the Barrow King is something different altogether. Technically he is some kinda lich.” Dirge saw Gryph’s blank expression and shrugged. “I'm going to regret this.”

  “Just do your part and we’ll stay pals.”

  “Anyway, a lich is the spirit of a powerful magician who has stuck around after death. Kinda foolish if you ask me since every sentient being in the Realms has an immortal soul that reincarnates after death as something new. Why get stuck as some half-life monster when you can just come back as a newborn babe.”

  “Power,” Gryph said.

  Dirge nodded in assent as if he had never thought of it before but knew it to be true.

  “What’s on the next floor down?”

  “Nothing really. Rats, some random monsters, but no organized force.”

  “Seems a little odd.”

  Dirge eyed Gryph a moment before answering. “It was part of the deal we negotiated.”

  “Some deal.”

  Dirge leaned forward, anger taking hold of him. “Judge me all you like my new friend, but all of us are still alive because of the deal. It has held for the last two years.”

  Gryph realized that timeline likely matched up with Ovyrm’s exile from the Gray Company. “Then why agree to my plan?”

  “Like you said, some deal,” Dirge said and took a sip of his beer, never once taking his eyes from Gryph.

  Their talk turned to the casual. Dirge told him about his home. A small town on the shores of the Gypt River, a massive waterway that stabbed through the desert lands to the west and gave rise to some of the most fertile lands in the Realms. “The most advanced civilization on Korynn,” Dirge boasted.

  “Sounds lovely. Why’d you leave?”

  “Let’s say a powerful noble and I didn't see eye to eye on a few things.”

  Gryph gave Dirge a smug look. “I may have bedded his daughter,” Dirge said, raising his gourd. Gryph nodded in understanding. “And his wives.”

  Gryph spit up his drink in amusement. “Wives?”

  Dirge held up three fingers as he took another sip from his gourd. Gryph laughed.

  “What can I say? I have a particular skill with alchemy and my wares were popular with men of a certain age." Dirge held his forearm up in an unmistakable gesture. Dirge had made magic Viagra. "This noble was a longtime customer. Even introduced me to his wives.” Dirge winked, and Gryph laughed again, a true belly laugh this time. “That isn’t the worst of it. Pretty sure the last straw on the camel’s back was the bedding on his favorite son.”

  Dirge looked at Gryph, searching for judgment, but an even larger smile crossed
Gryph’s face.

  “I’m starting to like you, Dirge.”

  “Watch out for that. I’m a rogue who can't be trusted. Say, you don’t happen to have a sister, do you?”

  Gryph choked on his beer and while thoughts of worry turned to Brynn, he found that he was enjoying himself for the first time since he’d entered the Realms.

  “Get me out of here and maybe I’ll make an introduction,” Gryph said.

  “I think this will be the beginning of a beautiful friendship, sir elf.” Dirge hoisted his gourd in salute. Gryph did the same.

  “You bastards,” came a voice swimming in the deep depths of inebriation. Both men turned to see Wick stumble into the tent. The empty wineskin dangled from his hand as he stumbled. Bleary, red eyes stared out from underneath the gnome’s acid shorn frock of lightning blue hair.

  Gryph had to stifle a laugh. Wick looked like an angry drunk toddler whose big sister had tried to “pretty him up” and failed. Dirge felt no need to hold in his laugh, earning the immediate ire of the angry little man.

  “Fridckkfr Yuuf” Wick mumbled. Gryph’s Gift of Tongues failed to translate the gibberish, but Dirge and Gryph still took the meaning. Wick strained to focus on the wiry man and dark purple chthonic energy pulsed and dissipate in his eyes. Dirge’s demeanor instantly shifted.

  Gryph jumped to his feet, nearly falling over. Damn this horrid root beer was strong. Gryph rushed up to Wick and kneeled in front of him. He forced the diminutive man to turn towards him.

  “Wick. We will find her. We will save her.”

  Rage and doubt and fear battled on the gnome’s face and finally the fear won. Tears poured from his eyes as the magic faded. “Promise?”

  Gryph held out his pinky. For a moment Wick just stared before finally grasping the extended finger with his own pinky. The bond sealed, Wick stumbled back out of the tent.

  “I…sleep,” the gnome mumbled and pushed past the flap of the tent. Gryph eased the flap open to watch as his friend weaved his way through the camp. He bumped into an old chest and then into a burly man who pushed him none too gently.

  Gryph felt Dirge come up next to him. “Is he going to be a problem?”

  “No,” Gryph said, never taking his eyes off of Wick.

  His friend walked past a small cage and a tiny, three-fingered red talon lashed put and tripped the gnome. Wick stumbled and fell, face planting onto the hard-packed dirt of the cavern floor. The imp’s laughter followed. “Fall on face, go boom,” Xeg grumbled and then spat on Wick.

  The gnome stumbled to his feet and kicked the cage. A yelp of anger piped up from inside the cage and Wick flipped the small demon off before stumbling towards a dilapidated old rope ladder that clung to the wall of the cavern.

  Gryph watched with apprehension as his small, drunk friend climbed the ladder. After several anxious moments and a few close calls, the gnome made it to a small alcove carved into the rock of the cavern wall. There he plopped down and pulled a ragged set of old blankets over him.

  “He’ll sleep it off,” Gryph said. “I think I’ll do the same.” Gryph hoisted his gourd to Dirge, drained the last bit rancid liquid and walked off with a stumble. The cold eyes of Dirge followed him every step and then an even colder grin crossed the wiry Aegyptian’s face.

  40

  Gryph felt the tiny prick and his eyes snapped open. Dirge stood above him, grinning down on him like some maniacal circus clown. The thief wiggled his finger, taunting Gryph with the poison-filled thimble. Gryph moved his hands through the gestures to cast Flying Stalactite. His arm grew heavy as the power of earth magic flowed through him. The stalactite flew from his hand, but his aim was off and it sailed past Dirge’s head to impact against the wall with the thud of stone on stone.

  Gryph’s hand flopped uselessly to his side. Dirge mounted him with ease, straddling Gryph like he was a prize-breeding stud.

  “Well, that was rude,” Dirge said and punched Gryph in the face. The blow hurt his pride more than his body as only a small fraction of his red health bar disappeared. The pain faded as his body became numb.

  “Hello, pally. Did you sleep well?”

  Gryph attempted to tell the wiry man to screw off, but he could not speak. What came out was a pathetic moan of droll and gibberish.

  “So, as you may have figured out, I’ve reneged on our deal. His decrepit majesty the Barrow King has offered me a better one. My freedom from this hellhole in exchange for you.”

  Gryph mumbled again, and Dirge feigned shock and irritation.

  “Did he just tell me to screw off?” Dirge asked turning to one of the burly men that stood behind him.

  “Sounded more like fuck off to me,” said the giant goon.

  Dirge looked to the other man. “What do you think?”

  “No idea, but it didn’t sound friendly.”

  “No, no it did not,” Dirge said and punched Gryph again. “You should behave, sir elf. It’ll go much easier for you.”

  Gryph grumbled more nonsense insults.

  “Or we can do it the fun way.” Dirge punched him once, twice, three more times. Each shot barely doing any damage. With each punch the Aegyptian’s faux calm faded, and Gryph could see the psychotic anger the small man otherwise masked so well. Dirge leaned in and whispered into Gryph’s ear.

  “I so wish Ovy hadn’t told you about our falling out. I could have maybe worked with you, but I don’t think the rest of the crew would take kindly to discovering the truth. Foolish of them really. Do they think that we’re allowed to stay here without cost? The Barrow King may be weaker than he once was, but he could still wipe us out. What’s the life of one man every few months compared to the lives of all of us?”

  “Ovyrm just couldn’t see the wisdom of it, and he wasn’t willing to make the sacrifice when it was his turn. Sure, I may have cheated a tad. Rigged the game to get rid of him.” Dirge rubbed the scar on his face. “It would have been so much easier if he’d just gone quietly.”

  Gryph’s focus locked on the debuff cooldown. Dirge was a talker. Maybe, just maybe, he’d keep blathering long enough to give Gryph a chance. Gryph mumbled and drooled, but nothing intelligible came out.

  “You know I just can’t understand you. It’s as if somebody injected you with a paralytic. Oh wait, that was me.” Dirge chuckled at his own jest. He punched Gryph once more and hopped up. He sauntered almost casually around the room, puffed up with the bravado and cockiness only small men can muster. He nodded to the two goons, and they tied Gryph. Gryph tried to struggle, but his body refused to respond.

  “We will play a little game called Truth or Slice,” he said as he pulled both daggers from their hilts and spun them artfully. He sat back on Gryph’s chest and placed his blade a mere inch from Gryph’s left eye. “Now, lets’ play.”

  “Why does the Barrow King want you so badly? He insisted that I bring you to him alive.”

  Gryph again mumbled something that may have been a suggestion about inserting vegetables somewhere they weren’t meant to go.

  “Oh, tease of teases. I so wish there was time for that,” Dirge said and brought his knife closer to Gryph’s eye. “But, unfortunately, time is not on our side. More on mine than yours, but we all have deadlines to keep so speak.”

  The knife tip was so close to Gryph’s eyes that he could no longer focus on it. Even paralyzed by Dirge’s sting, Gryph put immense effort into remaining still. Dirge had the steadiest hands he’d ever seen, but he trusted neither the thief, nor himself at this moment.

  Seeing that he’d made his point, Dirge pulled back a fraction of a hair. Gryph blinked and a muffled “I don’t know” chortled from his throat.

  “You know what, I believe you. Too bad.” Dirge eased back, flipped his daggers around and sheathed them as graceful as a dancer. He spun off Gryph and nodded to his two burly companions. “Gag him and toss him in a sack. It’s time to go.”

  Gryph was gagged, hoisted up, and tossed into a rough spun sack that could use some
serious laundering. It smelled of sweat, vomit and old blood. Gryph knew that he wasn’t the first person to face the end of his days in this bag. He tried to struggle with his bonds, but his body refused to obey commands.

  One brute tossed him over a shoulder, and they left the tent. The brute adjusted Gryph’s weight several times as they walked, seeking the most comfortable position to carry his hogtied prisoner. The movement pushed Gryph’s face up flush against a small hole in the sack’s thin, scratchy surface. He could now see a small, jagged part of the world.

  They stopped, and Gryph could see Dirge staring upwards. It was amazing what details the human mind could extrapolate from the tiniest bits of information. The other brute nocked an arrow and drew the bowstring. The upward trajectory of his shot combined with their location meant there could only be one target. He was aiming at the place where Wick had climbed to sleep.

  With a low twang the arrow zipped, and Gryph heard the sound of the arrow impact the mound of blankets. The brute knocked and fired again and was rewarded with another thump.

  The group snuck towards the old well they’d tossed Ovyrm down. He saw Dirge nod to the hooded guard that sat in the shadows near the well. Then he looked down with a grin and spat. The rogue nodded to the bow carrying brute again and two more quick twangs ended a life. Dirge nodded to the hooded guard, who returned the gesture. In silence they moved through the camp and entered a tunnel that descended deeper into the Barrow.

  “Hold up,” Dirge said and suddenly Gryph’s whole world was filled with the effeminate rogue’s face. “Hello,” he said with a winning grin of white teeth. “Goodbye.” Dirge brought the pommel of his dagger down hard onto Gryph’s head and the world went black

  41

  Gryph woke with a start. He didn't know how long he’d been out. It could have been seconds or days. His head pounded and he fought to stay awake as the steady, even steps of the brute that carried him nearly lulled him to back to sleep.