Omnibus Volume 1

by C. M. Carney

  “No, we do not.” Without another word Gryph gripped his spear and jogged into the darkened hallway beyond the door. A moment later the group followed. As they ran Tifala did her best to heal them all. Errat ran next to Gryph and kept glancing down at him like a child nervous to confess a misdeed to a parent.

  “What is it Errat?”

  “This is Errat’s fault.”

  “What do you mean?” Gryph asked, sending a sideways glance at Ovyrm, whose grim face said he was paying attention.

  “Errat said that he did not like one of you, but …” The warborn looked down as if shamed.

  “You meant Myrthendir?”

  Errat nodded. “Yes, Errat could not read Myrthendir, as he can the rest of you.”

  Gryph pushed back a rising feeling of panic at the idea. What, exactly, can he read?

  “The elf lord was hiding something. Errat knew this, but still wanted to be friends.”

  “I thought you meant Xeg.” Wick said.

  “We all did,” Tifala said.

  Errat seemed confused and Xeg grumbled, eying the warborn with ire. “What mean no like Xeg?”

  “Errat likes Xeg very much.”

  “See, all everyone like Xeg. Why think big handsome baldy no like Xeg?”

  “Handsome?” Wick muttered and looked up at Errat, but Gryph waved him to silence before the gnome’s confusion could lead them further down the path of distraction.

  “Why didn’t you tell us this before?” Gryph asked, his voice hard.

  Errat looked at Gryph with guilty intensity. “You said being friends was a package deal and … Errat wanted to be friends.”

  The weight of Errat’s thousands of years of being alone hit Gryph like a speeding truck and he felt sympathy for the awkward warborn. He also suspected he would have done the same had he been in Errat’s place. Gryph placed a hand on the warborn’s massive forearm. “How is he wrong, Errat?”

  Errat opened his mouth, but then closed it as if searching for words he couldn't remember. “He is Myrthendir, and he is … Other. I felt the elf lord deep inside like a distant sound one is unsure was real or just …” Errat struggled again.

  “Your imagination?” Tifala prompted.

  Errat smiled down on her. “Yes, imagination. He is both one and many.”

  “I don’t understand what that means,” Wick said, trying to hide his fear under frustration.

  “I do,” Ovyrm said, and all eyes turned to the adjudicator. “He is Prime.”

  “Illurryth?” Gryph said, hand gripping his bag.

  “I don’t think so. Illurryth cannot hide what they are, at least not as far as I have ever heard. But sometimes, when an arboleth larva infects a host the metamorphosis process does not take. The victim resists and while the brain is still consumed, enough of their will remains to take control of the nascent illurryth. They remember who they once were and by all appearances they are still human, elf, dwarf, or even gnome, but they are separate from both, neither mortal nor illurryth.”

  Looks of horror flowed across the assembled faces. Even Xeg seemed uncomfortable.

  “The result is a humanoid Prime with the powers and abilities of an illurryth that can hide among their own people for years without being detected. The Prime are as paranoid as they are xenophobic and believe the failed illurryth are abominations, aberrant that are usually killed.”

  “Usually, but not always?”

  “No, sometimes, the Prime will use the aberrant as spies.”

  “And you think this is what Myrthendir is?” Tifala asked.

  “It fits the available information we have, but I speak truthfully when I say I have never hoped to be wrong about anything in my life as much as I hope I am wrong here.”

  “His nose bled,” Gryph blurted.

  “What?” Wick asked.

  “When we were crossing the Deep Water the mind in the crashed arboleth ship tried to communicate with me, but what if it was reaching out to Myrthendir instead? What if what I felt was just residual … interference? What if the ship wanted to bond with him?”

  A heavy silence hung over the group.

  ”There’s more,” Gryph said. “I believe he is controlling the Dwellers in the Dark. That is why Errat said he felt many inside him.”

  “Impossible,” Ovyrm said. “Illurryth are not strong enough to take control of other sentient beings without the aid of an arboleth.”

  “Are you sure?” Gryph asked. “When I defeated the sword maiden she thanked me, as if her actions had not been her own.”

  "I am sure. But, once a mind has been taken, an illurryth could maintain that control, but they need an arboleth to break down the barriers. Unless..."

  “Unless what?” Wick asked, his voice whinier than he’d intended.

  “Unless he weakened his victim’s mental resistance first. Perhaps some ancient and forgotten thought magic, a potion or … torture.”

  “Torture?” Wick squeaked.

  “Torture work super good. Lotsa torture in Bxrthygaal. How think Xeg learn magic?”

  “Wait, what?” the gnome said looking sideways at the imp on his shoulder.

  “Myrthendir claimed to be a loremaster,” Tifala said. “Who knows what ancient secrets he uncovered in his studies and travels.”

  “Indeed,” Ovyrm mused.

  “It's why he chose the Dwellers,” Gryph said. All eyes turned to the player. “They were already a cult of arboleth worshippers willing to betray their own people. How hard would it be for Myrthendir to push them a bit further.?”

  Another silence hung heavy as all the pieces seemed to fall into place.

  “Maybe we’re wrong,” Wick said, the hope in his voice more desperate than real. “Maybe he is just an El’Edryn lord, fighting against that horde of arachnids. Trying to save the day while we besmirch his character.”

  The others just stared at him, letting the falsity of his words sink in.

  “Well shit,” Wick muttered. “We have to play heroes again, don't we?”

  “Yes, yes we do,” Gryph said. “Whatever Myrthendir is up to, he has played us since the beginning.”

  “Crap,” Wick grumbled.

  “Are any of you feeling any ill effects from the Vow or the Ring of Binding Fellowship?” Ovyrm asked.

  “No,” Gryph said with a scowl, and tried to remove the metal band, but it would not budge.

  “That makes sense,” Tifala said. The others looked up at her. “The terms of the Vow heavily favored Myrthendir, for obvious reasons. They had many reasons not to trust us.”

  “The Steward was the one that made us swear to the Vow. You don’t think he is working with Myrthendir?” Gryph asked.

  “I do not,” Tifala said. “The terms were logical, from Gartheniel’s perspective. He was trying to ensure that we ‘held faith with Myrthendir.’ Which tells me that he had no reason to believe Myrthendir would break faith with us.”

  “Or he is in on the whole thing,” Wick said.

  “Or that,” Tifala said.

  “So, it is logical to conclude, that since the Prince Regent has broken faith with us, that our Vow is nullified, otherwise, we’d be feeling the debuffs,” Ovyrm said.

  “Then why can’t we take the rings off?” Wick asked, tugging on the ring like a wannabe bride in a jewelry shop who’d tried on a wedding band that was too small.

  “Perhaps due to the nature of the Vow. Gartheniel has not released us, and it was him we made the Vow to.

  “So, Myrthendir probably still has the ring on as well,” Gryph said. “Can we use that to our advantage?”

  “Yeah, like electrocute him, or give him some disease that rots of his nether bits,” Wick said.

  “Did you not want to kick them?” Ovyrm said, with no hint of jest in his voice.

  “Just knowing that it happened would be enough,” Wick said.

  “I do not think they work that way,” Tifala said.

  “Bummer,” Wick grumbled.

  “Indeed,” the
xydai said in a serious tone.

  Under other circumstances, Gryph would have chuckled at the conversation.

  They journeyed in silence for a while, each of them a prisoner to their thoughts and worries. They rounded another corner and nearly ran into a wall of sticky fibrous strands whose edges had hardened.

  Wick poked it with his staff, and it thunked like stone. “What the hell is this?”

  “The arachnids use it to repair walls, floors, ceilings. Soon it will be hard as stone,” Errat said, a smile of pride crossing his face.

  “Why didn’t you tell us they could do that?”

  “You did not ask, so Errat no speaks.”

  Wick’s mouth dropped and then closed. “You and I will have some speaks if we get out of this.”

  “We’ve already given him too much of a head start.” Gryph walked to the wall of webbing, hovering his hand over it, before turning to Xeg. “Xeg, burn.”

  The imp grinned and its tiny, three-fingered hands flowed with crimson and black flame. It turned towards the webbing and sent dual blasts of blazing chthonic fire at the wall. The fibrous material ignited like dry kindling and the flames grew furiously hot as they consumed the webbing. A moment later the way was open, and the group moved forth.

  They ran in silence as the tunnel spiraled upwards at a steady incline that stole the stamina of all but Errat, who seemed indefatigable. Suspicion grew inside Gryph. Just how much did they know about this quirky, monstrous man? He was a fierce warrior who had the emotional range of a child, but could they trust him? Then there was his name. Wrong?

  “Errat, how are you wrong?” Gryph said, breaking the heavy silence. The group gave Gryph a surprised look, but then all eyes turned towards the massive warborn. The large man opened his mouth and then closed it again as if considering Gryph’s question. Or perhaps crafting a convincing lie.

  “Errat is not like other warborn. They made us not only to fight, but to think, to strategize, to adapt. These things are essential for warriors, but bad for soldiers. They caused … complications.”

  “They didn’t always obey orders.”

  “No, the Stone King wanted automatons that could think, reason and adapt. He ordered my father to build him this army. Errat's father was a loyal servant of the king and worked day and night to create the most advanced automatons ever built, but he soon learned that the only way to give the warborn the abilities the king demanded was to give them true sentience and the only way to give them true sentience was …”

  “To give them a soul,” Gryph said in sudden realization. His mind flashed back to the horrors he had seen in the Barrow King’s mind and the secret that Morrigan, now Aluran, was so desperate to hide. Murder was a foul crime, but the consumption, destruction, or enslavement of a soul, was far worse. Lives would always end, but souls were immortal. To bind a soul against its will was unforgivable.

  “Yes,” Errat said, as if he understood what Gryph was thinking.

  “Where did your father get these souls?” Gryph asked, his knuckles growing white under the fierce grip on his spear.

  “From the fallen warriors of the Alliance.”

  “He stole their souls?” Wick asked in horror.

  “No,” Errat said, anger surging into his voice. “My father was an honorable man. Those who were to become warborn were all warriors of the Alliance, volunteers who pledged their lives and their souls to defend their people. If they fell in battle, their souls did not pass on, but merged with the Crucible. Then they were reborn as warborn.

  “What is the Crucible?” Tifala asked.

  “It is where I, and all my warborn brothers were made. It is at the top of the city, in my father’s tower. Perhaps I will take you there once we win.”

  “Gotta love the confidence,” Wick said, his tone suggesting that he did not share the warborn’s optimism. Errat smiled at Wick, for all the world reminding Gryph of a loyal puppy.

  “None of this explains why you are wrong,” Gryph said.

  Errat sighed and slowed, his shoulders hung heavy. “Errat was the last of the warborn to be crafted. My father said Errat was special, but when he presented me to the Stone King he became … angry. I do not know what he saw, but he said Errat was … errat. He ordered my father to destroy me.

  Gryph watched as the artificial man called wrong tried to process his feelings. The rest of the group, except Xeg with his inscrutable expression, looked at the massive man with sympathy.

  “My father hid me and made my friends for me. Not long after that day, he came to me covered in blood and told me to hide. He called me son and then he went to sleep. He never named me, so I took the only name they had ever called me.”

  “Errat,” Gryph said in a low voice.

  “Yes, a funny joke.” He grinned oddly, and they ran in silence again. Soon, they rounded another turn, and the floor evened out, ending at a large pair of open doors. “We are here.” Errat whispered. “The Nexus.”

  “This seems a bit convenient,” Wick said indicating the open doors. He reached for Tifala’s hand.

  “He is baiting us,” Gryph whispered, gripped his spear and held a hand up for them to be silent. Then he activated Adventure Party and gave everyone Telepathic Bond.

  Everyone crouched down into Stealth. Stay here and cover me. Gryph crept forward, mana pulsing through his hands at the ready to power spell or spear.

  Beyond the doors was a circular room that reminded Gryph of the bridge of a spaceship from an old science fiction show Brynn watched as a child. It was at least two hundred feet wide and dozens of thick stone columns disappeared into shadows above supporting an unseen ceiling. At the center of the chamber was a raised platform with a series of metal and stone tables laden with levers, dials and switches.

  To each side of the platform a pair of wide sluiceways lay dry and barren. Pipes large enough to drive a car through emerged from the ceiling and hung above the empty stone reservoirs that themselves disappeared into pipes in the floor. It reminded Gryph of a primitive hydroelectric plant, and he imaged a time when the water flowed and the city was bustling.

  Gryph crept behind a nearby support pillar and peered around the room, bringing extra focus to his Perception skill. Nothing threatening presented itself, but his instincts screamed ambush. He rushed to the next column, thankful that he’d invested a point into the Stealth perk Speed, otherwise he would have been creeping forward no faster than a geriatric beggar.

  He reached the next column without incident, and gazed around, begging Perception to find what he knew in his gut was out there. That was when he heard it. A skittering teased the edge of his hearing like the distant rumble of an imminent thunderstorm. He looked around, but could not pinpoint the origin of the sound in the cavernous room. He knew what it meant though, the arachnids were coming.

  The sound grew louder and seemed to come from everywhere. It distracted him enough that he didn’t see the shadow above him until it was nearly too late. Gryph rolled away a split second before Myrthendir’s staff hit the floor with such force that shards of stone flew up nicking the player’s face.