by C. M. Carney
The light dimmed and thunder rumbled into the distance. Through a blue haze, Gryph saw Errat’s unblinking stare as he looked down on the smoking scar the electricity had burned into the floor. Charred bits of bronze were scattered around the chamber, spidery legs twitching as the last of the artificial life left the automatons’ remains.
Errat looked at Wick. “You will help Errat make more friends?”
“Yes,” Wick said through the last trembles of adrenaline and fear. “As many as you’d like.”
Errat gave Wick his unnerving smile again as Tifala walked up to the giant man and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Thank you,” she said.
Errat looked down at her, his expression one of pain. “I cannot … cry,” he said, the pain in his tone dug into Gryph’s chest and the small gnome woman hugged him even fiercer.
Wick stood staring transfixed at the spot and he swallowed hard. “I think I peed myself a little,” he said.
Gryph walked up and put a hand on Errat’s arm. “Is there a way to turn off the traps?”
“Yes,” Errat said.
“Then we should definitely do that?” Wick said. “Where is it?”
Errat pointed down the passageway. Wick’s eyes went wide. “You’re saying to turn off the traps we have to go through the traps? Great.”
“They would be useless traps if you could so easily turn them off,” Myrthendir said.
“Look at you being all wise and logical,” Wick said, earning a fierce glance from the elf lord. “Sorry, I’m not good at almost dying horrible deaths.”
Tifala walked up to him and took him into her arms. “It’s time to stop talking now, sweetie.” Wick nodded and took her head to his chest, her frock of wild hair giving Wick a temporary violet beard.
“Can you lead us through the traps? You said you could feel them through the aether,” Gryph asked.
“There is a way, but it is very … complicated. If you cannot feel them, then I cannot promise it will be safe.”
“I vote hell no to the tunnel of certain death,” Wick said. “If we’re voting.”
“Is there another way into the city?” Gryph asked.
“Yes, a hidden way. Would you like me to show?”
Wick’s eyes went wide in anger, but Gryph held out a coming hand. “Yes, please.”
“Okay, this way. Follow me.” The odd giant turned and walked back the way they’d come.
Wick’s mouth hung open and his gaze flashed from Errat to Gryph to Tifala. Finally, he shut his mouth and followed Errat, muttering under his breath.
Several minutes later they were walking through an ancient tunnel network. Myrthendir cast his light spell, allowing those without night vision to see.
“This is a sewer isn’t it?” Wick grumbled as he stepped over a slow trickle of brackish looking water. Several rats ran from them as they walked, skittering into small holes in the ancient walls.
“Yes, very quiet. Errat sometimes comes here to think. Follow please.” Errat walked down the tunnel, stooping so his head didn’t smack the sewer’s muck covered ceiling.
“Your very own meditation abattoir,” Wick grumbled, earning a smack from Tifala. “Hey, be nice. I nearly died back there.”
“Keep whining and maybe you’ll die down here,” Ovyrm said in a tone that may, or may not, have been in jest. The xydai pushed past the gnome and followed Errat.
Wick scowled at the adjudicator’s back. “You’ll feel awful if I die.”
Everyone followed, leaving Wick to grumble to himself. Xeg jumped onto his shoulder, smacked the gnome in the back of the head and leapt after the group.
“With friends like these….” Wick muttered and then ran off after the others.
Errat had led them through a dozen tunnels and soon Gryph felt lost. The feeling did not sit well with him. If he wanted us dead he could have easily managed it. Gryph walked up to the odd man who wasn’t a man and fell in step next to him. They walked in silence for several minutes, descending at an even grade deeper into the mountain.
“Tell me about yourself Errat,” Gryph said, drawing the tall man’s eyes to his.
“What would you like to know?” Errat said, surprised and happy to be asked.
“How old are you?”
“I was the last of the warborn to be forged in the Crucible 6,720 years ago.”
“You’re almost 7,000 years old?” Wick said in astonishment.
“That nothing compared to Xeg. Xeg is more older.” Wick waved at the imp to stay quiet and returned his attention to Errat. “It true,” Xeg said with scowls for Wick and then Errat.
“Warborn?” Gryph asked, ignoring both gnome and imp.
“You are El’Edryn. Wick is gnome. Errat is Warborn. Warborn were forged by my father to be the ultimate weapon against the Dark Ascendency. My brothers are powerful warriors, born of aether and thought.”
“Your brothers?” Ovyrm asked, a twinge of concern in his tone. “There are more like you?”
“Not like Errat. Errat is wrong. Brothers are not wrong, not like Errat.”
“Well, that’s clear as … mud,” the gnome mumbled.
“Where are they?” Gryph asked.
“They slumber. Only Errat stays awake. Errat is wrong. Errat cannot sleep.”
Shock pushed into Gryph. He hasn’t slept, ever? Trying to comprehend the idea was staggering. How could a sentient mind exist without downtime? Even his El’Edryn soul reverie, which took the place of sleep for his people, allowed him to decompress. Gryph knew the horror of sleep deprivation all too well, and his maximum had been just a few days.
Ovyrm slipped up beside Gryph and spoke in a low voice. “These warborn must be the weapon Barrendiel is after.”
Gryph nodded as panic built inside him. “Errat, how many warborn are there?”
“Many, many thousands.”
“Can we wake them up?”
"Yes," Errat said and went silent, clearly failing to understand the basics of conversational mechanics.
"And how would one go about doing that?" Gryph asked, his patience nearing the critical phase.
“He who wears the Iron Crown can awaken and command the warborn."
“Where is this crown?” Myrthendir asked.
“On the brow of the last Stone King. His skull is in the Nexus,” Errat said and continued walking.
The last Stone King. If Gryph could trust both his memories while in his Soul Reverie and Sillendriel’s visions, he was the last Stone King, or had been in a past life.
“His skull? Nexus?” Wick grumbled, nervously fingering the Ring of Binding Fellowship. “We’re all going to die.”
“Funny watch dumb blue head die. Xeg can visit in Bxrthygaal during Cruciata. Will bring blood wine and watch scream.”
Wick scowled at the imp and Tifala wrapped an arm around his shoulder. “Nobody is dying on my watch, especially not you Dinkwick Flintspanner.”
Wick leaned his forehead against hers and mumbled. “I don’t want to go to Byrthy … whatever.”
“You’re coming with me to the Twilight Realm or the Lords of the Abyss will answer to me,” Tifala said.
“Xeg like pretty lady. Xeg put in good word for ugly dumb head if pretty lady says.”
“Thank you Xeg,” Tifala said. “Wick, thank Xeg.”
Wick glared at Tifala, whose mouth turned into an involuntary smirk. “What can it hurt?”
Wick sighed. “Fine. Thank you Xeg.”
Ovyrm looked from the gnomes to the imp and finally to the giant warborn. “I’ve been party to more idiotic conversations since I’ve met you lot than in my previous 312 years,” Ovyrm grumbled.
“You’re 312?” Wick asked.
“What of it?” Ovyrm said, a confused expression painting his face.
“Nothing,” Wick said. “Don’t look a day over 311.”
Gryph smiled at his friend's banter, contentment filling him. He might be in another deadly underground hell hole, but at least he had good, if weird, co
mpany. His improved mood lasted mere moments before the warborn spoke up and life turned hellish again.
“We are here.”
Gryph followed Errat around a corner and a wave of searing heat pummeled him. His breath grew ragged and sweat dripped from every pore. Ahead the tunnel ended in a raging inferno of flame. Hot tortured air rolled over Gryph and stole his breath away.
“You expect us to go through that?” Wick yelled.
“The fires of Dar Thoriim have awakened,” Errat said.
Gryph shielded his face from the heat and walked to the end of the tunnel and looked down upon the circular room. Half a dozen other tunnels ended at the room making it look like the spokes of a giant wheel. Several of the tunnels had moving belts of iron that dumped broken bits of metal, wood, and stone into the heart of the furnace. Anything that came in contact with the flames was consumed, flaring the heat and flames higher. Smoke drifted upwards and through a hole in the ceiling to disappear into the darkness.
Ovyrm stepped up beside him and grimaced down into the seething cauldron. “What manner of machine is this?”
“It’s disposing of the city’s waste,” Gryph realized. “I’ve seen something similar back home.”
“You are correct Gryph of Earth,” Errat said. “The fires have lain quiet since the city sunk into the mountain. They are no longer slumbering.”
“You think?” Wick said, shielding his face as the flame surged upwards with explosive force and then died down. “Why are they … not slumbering?”
“Those that are wrong must have awakened them,” Errat said.
“What in the abyss do we do now?” Wick asked.
Errat held his arm steady and pointed through the dying flames at another sewer tunnel that lay opposite their current position. “We need to go there.” The tunnel disappeared behind another fireball.
“Ummm?” Wick sputtered but said nothing.
“No Dinkwick Flintspanner, there is no other way,” the warborn giant said.
“My father told me I would burn for my sins. I always thought he was being metaphorical.”
“Is there any way to turn it off?” Gryph asked.
Errat nodded and turned to a small hatch on the wall. Rust and grime had welded the panel shut. Errat dug his meaty fingers into a corner that had been bent by some long-ago impact. After a moment he wrenched the entire door from the wall exposing a small alcove that contained a large lever. The rust crusted lever didn’t look in any better shape than the door that shielded it.
Errat grabbed the handle with both hands and pulled downward. The metal screeched but did not move. Gryph lent a hand, and the lever moved bare millimeters. Gryph grunted as he struggled, but no sound came from Errat. The warborn’s muscles thrummed with power, but the effort seemed no more strenuous to Errat than opening a well-oiled door would have been for Gryph.
The lever did not move for several moments, then rust flaked from the handle and Gryph pulled harder. It moved an inch and the flames dimmed. The two men redoubled their efforts and then, with a loud bang, the handle snapped and both men toppled to the ground.
Errat got to his feet, but Gryph used Ovyrm’s proffered hand to get back up. The heat built and the bursts of flame increased their frequency. What had been an inferno was now a pit of hell.
“I don’t think that worked?” Wick said.
“No shit Sherlock,” Gryph grumbled.
The explosions of flame soared to the top of the chamber charring the walls soot black. The super-heated air sucked the breath from Gryph’s lungs as he stumbled back down the passageway. The sweat that had dripped down his face and back instantly evaporated in the heat. He reached the bend in the tunnel and collapsed into the relative coolness.
“So we may need a new plan,” Wick said, struggling to breathe.
“Is there another way to turn off the flames?” Myrthendir said, his face sallow and his breath coming in ragged gasps. The heat did not agree with the elf lord, who looked like a strip of calamari roasted on an asphalt road during the height of summer. Tifala handed him a flask of water and the Prince Regent nodded his thanks as he drank deep gulps.
“Yes, each tunnel has its own shutoff switch in case of emergencies.” The warborn pointed towards the opposite tunnel.
“So what you’re saying is if we want to turn off the flames we have to go through the flames.” Wick said, wiping a sleeve against his sopping brow.
“Yes.”
He looked at Errat. “How are you not sweating?”
“Warborn are resistant to fire,” Errat said.
“Resistant? Can you … you know?” Wick asked, using his two fingers to mock walk across his palm and then made a childishly dramatic explosion noise.
“I do not know, but I can try.” Errat closed then opened his eyes as if steeling himself for a difficult task, breathed deeply and repeated Wick’s mime of fingers walking across his palm and an explosion. It was clumsier, but the big grin on Errat’s face suggested his performance thrilled him. “How was that?” he asked proudly.
Wick opened his mouth, looked at Gryph, closed his mouth and then looked back at Errat. “Yeah, that was pretty good.”
“So you’re not fireproof?” Gryph asked the quirky warborn.
“Oh, no. I would last longer than the rest of you, but I would still die in mere moments.”
“So,” what you’re saying is we need someone immune to fire,” Tifala said. “One might say someone who loves fire, to sneak through that inferno, get to the other side and turn the switch off.” She was lightly scratching Xeg’s head. “I wonder where we can find someone like that?”
All eyes turned to Xeg. It took a moment for the imp to realize everyone was looking at him. “What big clomp clomp uglies stare at Xeg for?” the imp said in a smug tone.
“Clomp clomp uglies?” Wick said, astounded. Gryph gave him an irritated look that said ‘focus dude.’
“Can you get through the fire and turn off the switch Xeg?” Gryph asked.
“Course Xeg can do. Xeg no want do. Xeg like fire. Only stupid flesh bags no like fire.”
“Why doesn’t he just port to the other side?” Ovyrm asked.
“Xeg need see before Xeg go,” the imp said as if everyone in the world should understand how porting through the chthonic realm worked.
“So into the fire you go,” Wick said.
“Xeg, sweetie, do it for me, please?” Tifala said, rubbing the underside of the imp’s chin tenderly. The imp cooed in delight, its tail curling tighter around Tifala’s upper arm. “Please?”
“Hruuummgghppph,” Xeg grumbled and put a hand to his chin, mocking a man in deep thought. “Xeg do on one condition.”
“What’s that?” Wick said, suspicion and dread painting his face.
“Xeg get slap stinky jerks one time each, except pretty lady. Xeg like pretty lady.”
“I’m not so sure I like … ,” Wick began.
“Done,” Gryph said and Xeg bounced from Tifala’s shoulder onto Gryph’s where he smacked him across the face with surprising strength. Xeg then bounced from one member of the party to another, slapping each one. Each man grimaced as the imp’s slap left a hand shaped welt on their face. Errat laughed when Xeg smacked him. Xeg laughed back and perched on Errat’s shoulder eyeballing Wick with an evil glare.
“Just get it over with,” Wick said, squinting in frightened anticipation. Xeg jumped from Errat’s shoulder and landed on Wick’s head. Wick flinched as Xeg brought its hand down, closing his eyes in anticipation. Nothing happened. Wick eased his eyes open to see Xeg looking down on him, upside down. “What are you waiting for?”