by C. M. Carney
Another arrow shot at Gryph, but this one bounced harmlessly off his shield. Gryph cast Flying Stalactite, but the man had lightning reflexes and spun out of the rock missile’s path. He dropped his bow and drew a fantastic red sword. Its slight curve reminded Gryph of a katana.
The man swung the sword in a series of intricate forms and plunged the tip of the sword into the air shield. The magic barrier pulsed and Gryph could see the Mana, his Mana, flowing into the blade.
Gryph pulled his spear and got into a defensive stance. A moment later the shield collapsed with its characteristic pop. The sword flew at him like a cobra. He had never seen anyone move so fast. The respawn debuffs were kicking his ass. He felt like a guy trying to run a marathon the night after a bender.
Gryph used Parry to deflect the attack, but only just. He heard the sword clang against his spear, the blade an inch from his face. The blade had sunk halfway into the wood, despite its toughness. The man brought considerable strength to bear as he pushed, buckling Gryph’s knees.
Gryph dropped and spun and the man’s momentum took him past. The shaft of the spear smacked into the back of the dusky elf’s calves, rewarding Gryph with a grunt of pain. Gryph spun again, standing behind the crimson eyed man.
Gryph activated both Impale and his bracers and his spear launched itself at the man’s exposed back like a bullet. The stranger arched his back in a feat of gymnastic skill that would put Olympic medalists to shame and brought his sword into a defensive position.
The spear’s trajectory was altered, but the tip still found purchase in the man’s side. What had been a sure killing blow had only delivered a flesh wound. With a small grunt the man spun again and flashed his blade at Gryph.
Gryph fell back, summoning his spear back to him with the bracers. He tried Parry again, but only redirected the sword from his neck to his shoulder. The razor sharp metal found a small gap in Gryph’s armor and bit into his shoulder. His health went down by 30%.
Gryph grunted in pain and made a clumsy Counter Attack that failed to find his mark. Gryph's breathing turned ragged. His Stamina was about to bottom out. He needed a new tactic. He tossed his spider silk rope and cast Animate Rope. The man stepped over the silver white coil and brought his sword down again.
The viper of living rope snapped around the man’s wrist and then slithered to his neck. At Gryph’s command the rope tightened, and the man smashed the hilt against the side of his own head. He stumbled, more from shock than pain, but it gave Gryph the time to get to his feet and retrieve his spear.
The red eyed elf wasted no time struggling against the rope, but dropped his sword from his bound hand into his free one. Then he eased the tip against the silvery filament and the rope went limp. Whatever spirit of air had given the rope life was banished by the Mana draining blade.
The man advanced, pushing Gryph back to one of the massive mushrooms, coating him in a shimmering haze of spores. This is all too familiar, Gryph thought. His spear spun to and fro, but the elf warrior was just too damn good. Gryph’s spear clattered to the floor, and he felt the tip of the red blade draw a bead of blood from his jugular.
“How are you still alive?” the man said, his breathing even and steady.
“I do not know,” Gryph said, raising his hands. “I'm as surprised as you.”
“Are you illurryth?”
“I’m Gryph. I’m a Crusader, a Player from Earth.”
“Are you illurryth!” the man demanded louder and Gryph could see the fear at the back of the man’s eyes.
“You mean the Other?” Gryph thought.
The dusky man cocked his head and his eyes glazed over. Gryph almost made a move when he felt another mind in his head. It was this man. He could feel him inspecting the infinite corridors of his mind. The strange elf opened his eyes and focused on Gryph. He eased the tip of his blade from Gryph’s throat.
“How are you here? How did you respawn?” the man asked in amazement.
“I don’t understand it either,” Gryph said, hands still raised. “It has something to do with being a Player. Evidently if I die I respawn.”
The odd elf with the eyes of a demon stared at Gryph for a long moment. The man was capable and terrifying. His hands fell to his side as the man lowered his blade.
“I sense no deception in you.” The elf inhaled and with a flash of motion sheathed his sword. He held out a hand. “I am Ovyrm.”
Confused, Gryph hesitated, before easing his own hand forward. The man took it in a forearm grasp and Gryph could feel strength pulse through the man’s grip.
“Gryph. Good to meet you. I think.” His knees went wobbly, and he fell to the ground. Now that the adrenaline of the fight had worn off, the full power of the debuffs came rushing back in all their nauseous glory. Ovyrm caught him before he fell to the ground.
“We must be quick. The Barrow King knows where you are. He is sending wyrmynn to capture you. That cannot happen.”
“What the hell is the Barrow King?”
“A disembodied spirit of evil and hunger. It is ancient. Older perhaps, than the Old Gods themselves. He is not only the master of this dungeon, he is the dungeon. Surely you have felt him?”
“I have, but I still do not know what he is.”
“An ancient lich of formidable power. He was once a powerful wizard. An adept of the sphere of soul magic.” Ovyrm hesitated. “Soul magic is powerful, yet seductive.” His gaze moved to the walls of the Barrow. “This place seethes with the residue of his horrid acts, done in the name of power and immortality. His existence is a wretched half life, and he wants what you have.”
“The Godhead.”
Ovyrm nodded. “Make no mistake, the Barrow King wants you more than he has wanted anything in his long existence. He will use every method at his disposal to get you. If he does, the world will know misery unlike any it has seen in millennia.”
“So what’s the plan?”
“We get you out of here. We could use some help.”
“I know a guy.”
Ovyrm nodded and without another word, Ovyrm marched towards the tunnel descending into the Barrow.
“Damn. I wish Lex were here,” Gryph whispered to himself.
As they left the chamber, they passed the headless corpse of the baalgrath. Ovyrm gave it a glance and spoke. “Nice work.”
“Thanks,” Gryph said, his eyes moving from the corpse to the strange warrior monk. Then silence overtook the motley pair as they dipped into Stealth and made their way down the tunnel.
32
T he High God Aluran was under attack. Blow after blow came from multiple directions. Multiple attackers doing their best to kill a god. Clangs of weapons bouncing off his plate armor thundered across the courtyard of The Dragon’s Nest, the keep that was Aluran's home.
His attackers were among the best of his private guard. Men and women who had served him faithfully their entire lives. Ordered to give it their all, they were doing their best to kill their god. If they held back, it would mean their death. The High God Aluran had decreed it and his decrees were holy writ.
An ebony warhammer careened towards Aluran's head. Quicker than the eye could follow he made the slightest of moves and sidestepped the skull crushing blow. The hammer pounded into the ground shattering the polished marble cobblestones and the man grunted in pain as shock waves thundered up his arms.
A lithe woman leapt at Aluran, spinning a double-ended spear at her god. Aluran raised his gauntleted hands. He bore no weapon, but he was hardly unarmed. A fast strike from each hand shot outwards one disarming the woman, the other sending her flying back into the wall of the courtyard. She fell in a broken heap and several Life Masters rushed to her side and cast healing spells.
Aluran took the spear from the fallen woman and spun it in a blur of death. A lighting fast whip of his arm plunged the spear into the stomach of a massive man wielding a warhammer. The spear impaled the man on a nearby wooden beam, a scream of agony burbling from his mouth befo
re he lost consciousness. Once again a cadre of Life Masters rushed up to him.
Aluran sidestepped the swipe of a two handed sword so large that most mortals were incapable of lifting it, much less wielding it effectively. The strike was close and Aluran felt the blur of wind pass his face. He spun and his left leg surged forward taking the sword bearer in the gut. As had the woman before him, this massive fellow crumpled to the ground. His grunt of pain silenced by the snapping of his spine. More Life Masters moved to the fallen man’s side.
As the battle raged, a hooded man entered the courtyard and stood at the edge of the combat arena waiting for his master to finish his morning workout. The High God did not look up, but the Hooded Man knew his master knew of his presence. The Hooded Man was patient.
In mere moments the other three combatants lay broken and defeated. Life Masters were at their sides and then helped them exit the arena. Cheers rose from the audience. The High God’s training sessions were always popular entertainment for the pilgrims who had journeyed to prove their love and adoration of the High God.
The High God removed his helmet and held it out to his steward. Aluran took a clean cloth from the man and wiped the few drops of sweat from his brow. The Hooded Man swallowed trying to ease his nervousness as his god walked towards him.
“Your Eminence,” the Hooded Man said, bowing so low his head was near parallel to the ground.
“Have you found him?” The High God asked.
The Hooded Man leaned back to his full height. He was a tall man, but his god was a full head taller than he. The Hooded Man brought his gaze up to his god’s face. Few could perceive the Hooded Man’s true nature, but his appearance was neither a surprise nor a shock to the High God.
“No, your Eminence. None of my eyes or ears have reported seeing him. And my Divinations have also turned up nothing.”
A small frown crossed Aluran's lips. “Then it is as we suspected?”
“Yes,” the Hooded Man said. “If I may, I suggest that we retire to a more private location."
Aluran nodded and placed his hand on the Hooded Man’s shoulder. Reality bent and blurred, and they were elsewhere. The High God, now clad in robes of burnished gold and emerald, walked to a tall window and gazed down upon the Shining City. They were at the top of the tower known as The Fang that soared several hundred yards above the courtyard of the Dragon’s Nest.
“Then it is a true Prime Godhead?” Aluran queried without turning his gaze from his city.
“It is the only explanation Your Eminence. At first I suspected that someone had altered one of the Godhead’s you constructed for The Pantheon, somehow making it immune to your influence.”
The Hooded Man paused.
“But?” Aluran said with a note of impatience.
“Even if someone removed the domination protocols they could not erase the beacon. It is part of the base code upon which you layered the new Godhead matrices. But, despite several exhaustive searches I could not divine his location.”
“I was under the impression that the location of all the Prime Godheads had been accounted for?”
The Hooded Man cringed. That responsibility had been his, and he had been certain that the location or fate of all the Prime Godhead’s were known. Yet, somehow he had missed one. The High God had a well-known reputation for benevolence among the peoples of Korynn, but the Hooded Man knew better. He knew ancient paranoia still raged in the soul of his master. Even the Hooded Man, the most loyal of the High God’s servants, knew he could be sacrificed on the altar of those ancient fears.
“I am sorry your Eminence. I have sent spies to all corners of Korynn. They will find him. And I will continue to Divine as well.” The Hooded Man lowered his head as he heard Aluran turn and walk towards him. Every second ticked by in an age and the Hooded Man wondered if this moment would once again be his last.
“Look at me,” the High God said and the Hooded Man raised a fear filled gaze to his master.
The High God stared at his minion with an unknowable expression. Had the Hooded Man still possessed a living heart he knew it would be near bursting. Yet, he did not and so he had no biological mechanism to track time.
“Finding this man, this heretic, is your only purpose,” The High God commanded. “You will do nothing else until he is found.”
The Hooded Man knew better than to say anything when his master was in such a mood. He watched as the High God buried his rage. It did not disappear. It never disappeared.
Aluran gazed down on the map and spread his hands wide. The map moved in to settle on a town near the Myrric Mountains a mere thousand miles from where they now stood.
“This heathen who bears the power of a god may shield himself, but his banner NPC is here. Find him. Bring him to me. Alive.”
The Hooded Man hung his head low in humility. “I will send my best Agent.”
“See that you do,” the High God said, his powerful grip clasped the base of the Hooded Man’s thin neck. A mere flick of the wrist would mean another death. With no warning the High God released him and turned.
“Steward, attend me,” Aluran said in a measured voice and a thin pop of air announced his Steward, the same squat man who had taken his helmet in the courtyard.
“You called Your Eminence?”
“Bring me something to kill.”
“At once,” the Steward said with a bow and disappeared and the High God turned to the Hooded Man.
“Someone gave this man a Godhead.”
With a sudden shock of realization the Hooded Man understood his master’s words. “You believe there is a traitor in our midst?”
The High God whipped his head towards the Hooded Man and a slight twinge of anger burbled to the surface before Aluran buried it. He turned back towards the window and gazed to the south.
“There are always traitors,” the High God said.
33
W ick had found the small set of rooms on their third day in the Barrow and it had been home since. An ancient cave-in blocked the entrance, but after a long day's work the group had cleared the rubble away to find a hidden door. The rooms had contained a small armory of rusted weapons and armor and a dozen beds. Hugarn thought it was a barracks, a secret guard room from the long ago days when the Barrow had been more a fortress than a dungeon.
The six members of the party had found the small space cramped. Now that it was just Wick and Tifala, the place felt cavernous. Once again the guilt wormed into him. They were all dead. Hugarn, Zelyanna, Thaardik and poor sweet, Jerris missing these last three days. He had no idea what he would tell Rehla if they ever got out of this hellhole. She would blame him for his cousin’s death and she would be right.
His thoughts so troubled him that he did not hear Tifala come up behind him and jumped when she lightly touched his shoulder. She handed him a cup of steaming liquid. She saw his troubled thoughts painted on his face and smiled.
“The potion?” he asked bewildered. She had been crafting a potion from the ingredients Wick had collected after his encounter with the Player called Gryph. A potion that would increase his Stamina, Constitution and Dexterity. Why would she give him this? To test it?
“Tea,” she said with a smile that told him he could be dim, but that she found it endearing.
Wick smiled grimly and nodded a salute to his own foolishness.
“You’re thinking about them again.”
Wick nodded, embarrassed and ecstatic that she knew him so well. “Jerris is still missing. I should be out there looking for him.”
Tifala took his face gently in her small hands and turned him towards her. The look in her eye was pure sympathy layered in love. “Jerris is dead. We both know it.” She pulled him to her as his eyes brimmed with tears.
“What am I going to tell Rehla?”
“We will figure it out together,” Tifala said, holding his face in both hands and forcing him to look her in the eye. “We will get out of here together.” Wick’s mood lifted, if only s
lightly. He knew the truth of the words Tif spoke, at least on an intellectual level. He knew in his mind that he was not at fault. Every member of their party had chosen to adventure into the Barrow. Their deaths were not on his conscience. He knew that in his mind, it was his heart that disagreed and his heart that had always held sway over him.
She held out her pinky finger to him, her smile growing warmer and brighter in a place bereft of both light and warmth. After a few seconds he smiled and nodded. He held out the pinky finger of his right hand. She raised hers, curling it around his.
“Together. Forever,” he said.
“Together. Forever,” she replied.
The slight smell of sulphur filled the room and Wick’s mood went from content to on edge. A moment later a small flash and the pop of air announced the arrival of the imp Wick referred to as Xeg, since his true name, the name used to summon him from the chthonic realm was both incredibly difficult to pronounce and extremely taxing on the vocal cords.
“Things come,” The imp sputtered in a voice that sounded like lava melting ice.
“What kind of things?” Wick said, attempting to keep the anger from his voice. Xeg wasn’t the most cooperative servant. Chthonic beings loved getting away from their hellish plane of existence, but they despised having to serve mortals like Wick. Mortals who were inferior to Xeg and his kind.
"Xeg know not. Things. Walk on two legs. Wear clothing." This last bit featured a forward thrust of his crotch, only instead of genitals Xeg’s groin was blank. Wick had often wondered in moments when his mind went idle how imps reproduced. Sometimes he was not a fan of his mind.
“Are they wyrmynn or other?”
“Other. Not stinky cold vermin. Warm and tall with pokey ears.”
“Pointy ears,” Wick corrected.
“Pffft,” was the imp’s only response.
“Elves?” Tifala asked in a curious tone.
“How far?” Wick asked as the mechanism that hid the door to their room clicked. Wick and Tifala both whipped their hands towards the door. Hers covered in warm halo of golden light. His in a roiling pulse of inky blue black.