The Lost City: The Realms Book Two (An Epic LitRPG Adventure)

by C. M. Carney

  “What happened to her?” Gryph said, a tear forming in the corner of his eye.

  “She was poisoned by the Dark Ascendency as they fled this realm.“ He looked at Gryph with regret. “Imagine what she was like in her prime? We, the last El'Edryn remember her, here,” he tapped Gryph on the chest right above the heart, “We remember what the Prime stole from us.”

  “Can anything be done for her?”

  “Some can no longer say her name, referring to her simply as the Spire. Others believe that someday she will be rejuvenated and that day will mark a new epoch in the history of the Realms.”

  “But you do not believe that?”

  “I am a realist. Losing Aurvendiel was a terrible blow to our people. Without her light the El’Edryn devolved into the various elven races that populate the rest of Korynn. We who live under her shadow still cling to who we once were, but soon we too will no longer be El’Edryn.”

  “I am sorry,” Gryph said.

  “So am I,” Barrendiel said and then pushed his pain from his face and looked at Gryph, once again all business. “I have sent a runner ahead. We are expected. Prepare for Conclave. Be honest with the Regent. He will know if you are lying, and if you are, your life will be measured in hours, regardless of your mysterious status as El’Edryn.” The dour captain stared at Gryph for several moments and then walked to the front of the column.

  Gryph took a deep cleansing breath. There was so much about him that he needed to keep hidden. And any one of those secrets could get me killed. For the first time in a long time the man who had been Finn Caldwell felt true fear.

  7

  The journey through the city started peacefully. Common folk meandered around the bustling streets, going about their evening business. Families and friends dined and laughed. The sounds of commerce were everywhere.

  Most of the residents were other El’Edryn, but Gryph spotted a few humans and several squat, bearded men whom he guessed were dwarves. They were the minority to be sure, but all three races seemed amiable, despite the ranger’s spitting hatred of the ‘Thalmiir traitors.’

  As the troop approached, greetings rang through the streets. Children ran up to them and men and women alike smiled, greeting the returning warriors. It seemed a joyous occasion and then eyes grew wide and gasps of shock led to silence and whispering. It took a moment for Gryph to realize that the townsfolk were reacting not to him, but to Ovyrm. Children hid behind parents, faces went pale and eyes sparked with anger.

  “Accursed,” Gryph heard someone say in a tone that suggested they did not believe their own eyes. “Fallen,” another voice said. “Daemon,” came a third.

  Barrendiel held up a fist and the ranger’s closed ranks on Ovyrm. “There is no reason for alarm my friends,” Barrendiel said in a strong, but calm voice. “The Regent will know what to do.”

  The sounds did not abate, but the tone of the shocked and surprised voices took on a more confident tone. Whoever this Regent was, he seemed to have the faith of his people. The rangers led them through the town without incident and they passed through a gate in a low wall onto a large green area. Aurvendiel dominated the space. Up close she was even grander than it had seemed from the edge of town. What was she like in her prime?

  Wick walked up to him and whispered. “I don’t know what this Conclave thing is, but I’m pretty sure my life, and Ovyrm’s, are in your hands. Don’t screw it up.”

  Gryph scowled and muttered. “Great.”

  “Not filling me with confidence.”

  “I don’t even know what the hell Conclave is.”

  "Conclave is an ancient privilege granted to any member of the four peoples who formed the Alliance,” Ovyrm said. “It grants you the right to present your case before an authorized representative of the Alliance. It is, was, one of the few fair tribunals in all the Realms.”

  “Well that sounds okay,” Wick said.

  “However, my small friend, you stand accused of one of the Alliance’s high crimes, and I am, by my very nature, a high crime.”

  “My father always said I’d get myself into trouble,” Wick said.

  “We’ll figure it out,” Tifala said, gripping her love’s hand, and Gryph almost believed the sincerity in her voice.

  “Can I go back to the Barrow now?” Wick asked.

  “Don’t worry my friend, I’ll get us out of this,” Gryph said, feigning a confidence he did not feel. Wick looked at him and then to the towering dead tree above them.

  They crossed the green area and came to a large door in the base of the tree. A part of Gryph wanted to scream at the heresy of cutting into such a magnificent entity, but then he realized that the entrance had been grown not cut.

  Several El’Edryn stood rigid, holding tall elvish war spears. Unlike the dark green leather worn by the rangers, these sentinels wore armor of shining metal.

  Another elf, this one taller than any other Gryph had yet seen, stood in the entrance. He wore resplendent robes of silver and blue and held a war stave in one hand. He strode forward and greeted the captain.

  “Welcome back Captain Barrendiel.”

  “Thank you Prince Regent,” Barrendiel said with a note of cold respect. The other man noticed and a small smirk turned up his lip.

  “These are the strangers you sent word of?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Barrendiel said and held his left hand up. His rangers parted like a living sea, leaving Gryph and his three companions alone at the center.

  The Prince Regent walked to Tifala. He donned his head to her. “I hear we have you to thank for arresting the corruption to young Farrengiir,” the Prince Regent said. “My thanks life mistress.”

  A flush crossed Tifala’s cheek, and she curtsied at the tall elf. “I fear my treatment is likely only temporary. Left unchecked, the corruption could spread. It may be beyond my ability to heal.”

  A scowl of worry painted the Prince Regent’s face. “Have you been able to identify the infection?”

  “No, my lord,” Tifala said. “I have never seen its like.”

  “That is unfortunate. If you would, I’d like for you to speak with our healers and see what your combined expertise can come up with.”

  “I will be glad to do so my lord, once I am assured of my companions’ safety,” Tifala said, showing the tall elf the toughness that Gryph had seen from her many times since the day they met. The Prince Regent was taken aback, but then smiled and nodded.

  Then he turned to Wick. “Is it true what they said. You are a summoner of chthonic demons?”

  “It isn’t like I asked for that affinity,” Wick retorted more harshly than he should have.

  “We cannot determine what we are at birth, only what we become in life.”

  A flush of shame crossed Wick’s face, and he muttered. “I’ve only done it a couple of times.”

  “My father is a just man. Be open and honest with him and he will treat you fairly.” Wick nodded at the man and seemed somewhat relieved. Gryph wasn’t so sure. He’d known charming talkers like the Prince Regent, and they almost always used that charm for their own ends.

  Next, he stood in front of Ovyrm and his face turned to a scowl. Ovyrm, to his credit, held the man’s gaze. Several moments passed before the tall elf spoke. “By all the stars in the all the Realms, you are one of the Fallen.”

  “I am,” Ovyrm said. “But we now call ourselves the xydai.”

  “The Free,” The Prince Regent translated. “Hmmm, father told me our ancestors wiped your species from the face of Korynn long ago.” Ovyrm said nothing, never taking his eyes from the Prince Regent. After a few more tense moments the elf warrior smiled. “Apparently he doesn’t know everything.”

  Finally, the Prince Regent came to stand before Gryph. Eyes locked and wills battled and then the Prince Regent smiled. “I love what you’ve done with your hair.”

  Shit, I forgot all about that, Gryph grumbled to himself.

  “Have a fight with some lutins did you?” He said an
d grinned. “Don’t worry, I’ve had a run in with the little beasts. Between you and me I’d rather face off against a baalgrath.”

  “Get your head looked at if you think that's true.”

  The Prince laughed. “You’re probably right,” then he cocked his head and stared at Gryph. “You are a player aren’t you? I met one of your kind, a long time ago. She was feisty too. Perhaps it has something to do with your ability to respawn. Death has less meaning, but then so does life.”

  “Perhaps.”

  With that the Prince Regent turned and motioned for Gryph and the others to enter. After a moment Gryph crossed the threshold into the tower proper. Barrendiel and several of his rangers followed, but most of the large troop remained outside.

  The hollowed interior of the tree turned tower was massive. Gryph noted that it could have held an entire football field in it and still had room left over for spectators. The roof extended a good fifty feet above them and he could see wide stairs grown from twining vines winding along the walls leading to higher floors. As Gryph and his escort entered the chamber dozens of tall El’Edryn paused to watch. Among them were a handful of dwarves and a few humans.

  The Prince Regent led them towards a half moon shaped dais. At the center, on a further raised platform, sat a resplendent throne made of tightly woven vines. Multicolored flowers grew from the back of the throne back-lit by a dim silver light that cast a wondrous multi-colored halo around the room. Gryph noted the throne sat empty.

  A smaller, less noble chair sat lower and to the right of the main throne. A man of great bearing occupied this one. Gryph noted the familial resemblance to the Prince Regent. On his head he wore a simple band of shining silver. It bore no jewels and lacked intricate scrollwork. This was a symbol of authority that clearly stated ‘I am not a king.’

  Surrounding the entire dais were armored guards. Like their fellows at the entrance they bore spears and Gryph could tell from their bearing that they were experts with the weapons.

  Two other figures stood behind and to the side of the Regent. One was an older and shorter elf clad in simple robes. He carried a ledger, and a quill and ink pot sat on a disk of wood that resembled a tabletop, but hovered in midair, unsupported by legs or a stand. The other was a lithe woman with piercing blue eyes. She seemed tired and her clothing was far less ornate than the others in the room. Her near black hair seemed more disheveled than Gryph would have expected. While almost every eye in the room was on Ovyrm, her gaze stayed on Gryph, eyeing him warily with something verging on the edge of fear.

  As they got close, one guard stepped forward. His armor was the same as the other guards, except it had intricate jade scrolling on the pauldrons. He held out a hand and The Prince Regent and the others stopped.

  “Who approaches the Low Seat of Lassendir, High Regent of Sylvan Aenor, Lord Protector of the Twined Throne, devoted servant to the True High King until his Return?”

  “Until his return.” Came a chorus from all those around the room.

  “I Myrthendir, Second Son of Lassendir, bring forth the strangers found in the Blighted Ruins. Their leader, a player named Gryph, has called Conclave.”

  Sounds of shock filtered through the room. While Gryph knew that the Regent must have already been aware Conclave had been called, he still eased forward, feigning surprise.

  “Then come forward Myrthendir, son of Lassendir, and take your place at the Regent’s side.” Myrthendir walked up and stood at his father’s left, next to the odd woman. Gryph saw her shoulders tense and noted that Myrthendir did not even glance her way.

  A deep voice that demanded notice boomed from the Regent. “You know that by calling Conclave, your fate, all of your fates,” he said and let his gaze pass over the group to settle on Gryph, “are now entwined?”

  “We only just met,” Wick said in a low voice and got a quick kick from Tifala.

  Gryph stepped forward, feeling odd that they had introduced him as the leader of their group. As he considered it he realized that there was truth to the statement. He had taken charge during the battle against the corrupted creatures and it had been his plan that had won them escape from the Barrow. It was no longer a role he relished, or even wanted, but, for now at least, it was too late to belabor the point.

  “I am Gryph and I understand,” Gryph said, realizing that in fact he did not understand. He imagined that Conclave was like a trial by jury and hoped that this assumption did not prove a fatal mistake.

  The Regent nodded and motioned to the man with the book. The man slowly descended the dais towards Gryph and the others and the disk holding the quill and ink pot followed. He came to a stop in front of Gryph.

  “I am Gartheniel, Steward of Sylvan Aenor and First Councilor to His Lordship Regent Lassendir. The questions I now ask you must be answered truthfully or those crimes will be added to those that you are already accused of. Do you understand?”

  “I do,” said Gryph.

  “Place your hand on the book. It will know whether the words you speak are the truth or falsehood.”

  Gryph did as bidden and felt a warmth spread through the scaled leather cover as it pulsed with life and purpose. A golden light flared around his hand and then faded. The Steward nodded and opened the book to a fresh, unmarked page and dipped the quill into the ink.

  “What is your name?” the Steward asked.

  “I am known as Gryph,” Gryph responded, realizing that the name still sounded odd, somehow foreign to the man who had once been Finn Caldwell.

  The Steward wrote his name in the book and golden light flared around the letters leaving the ink dry. The Steward went along to the others in the group, repeating the ritual and both Tifala and Ovyrm who gave their names without incident. Despite the dire circumstances they found themselves in, Gryph could not help but grin when Wick told the Steward his full name. Dinkwick Flintspanner did not seem to amuse the dour Steward as much as it had Gryph. Maybe I’m just an immature idiot?

  The Steward did not seem aggrieved by Ovyrm’s existence and Gryph noticed, unlike every other elf he’d seen to date, the shorter Steward bore the hint of a five o'clock shadow and his ears were more rounded than the other elves. He activated Analyze and learned that the man was a half elf.

  The Steward’s eyes snapped up and Gryph had the distinct impression that the man knew he’d been Analyzed. “It is considered uncouth to Analyze someone without permission,” the Steward said to him in a low voice. “I would strongly advise that you not take such liberties with the Regent.” The man whispered the last phrase again. “I strongly advise.”

  Gryph gave the man a nod that was part apology and part understanding and the Steward nodded back in apparent acceptance of the apology.

  The Steward turned back to the Regent. “They are who they claim to be My Lord.” He brought the book up to the Regent’s chair and placed it at his side. The Regent laid his hand on the book and looked at Ovyrm.

  “Adjudicator Ovyrm Nightslayer,” the Regent said. "You are of the Accursed, the Forsaken, the Fallen. We wiped your kind from the face of Korynn many thousands of years ago. Come forward and explain how you come to stand before me.”

  Ovyrm took a step towards the dais and every guard seemed to grow tense. Gryph hadn’t thought that was possible and feared that the rigid guardsmen would pull a muscle. Ovyrm bowed ever so slightly to the Regent. “My Lord, you are correct, I am not of this realm, I come from the Outer Realms. I am a descendent of the Lost Thousand.”

  Gasps of shock flowed through the chamber and even the stoic Regent seemed caught off guard. He leaned forward, pain battling serenity in his eyes. “Impossible,” the Regent whispered and then caught himself. Gryph did not understand what the Lost Thousand were, but the mention of them had caught even the Regent off guard.

  “Quite possible, My Lord,” Ovyrm stated. "The thousand El’Edryn children taken by the Dark Ascendancy suffered the same fate as all High Elves taken by the arboleth. They were tortured and corrupted,
both mentally and physically. They became the Fallen, the last of my species, and the most powerful. I am a descendent of those poor souls.”

  Gasps of horror passed through the bystanders who had forgotten whatever tasks they’d been about to listen to the claims of this daemon of yore.

  “But, after millennia of forced servitude, one among us rose up and freed our people from the shackles of that oppression. This leader discovered she was immune to the mental conditioning the arboleth used to control us and over time she taught the rest of us to fight back. We became the xydai, the Free, and we are still out there today, on the front lines, fighting to hold the horrors of the arboleth and the illurryth at bay.”

  “I have heard no such tales, xydai,” The Regent said, the word xydai seeming to catch on his tongue in irritation.

  “Much has occurred in the Outer Realms since the Exodus, and due to the Accords none of this news would have reached you or any other being on Korynn.”

  “Explain these Accords,” The Regent said.

  “As you are no doubt aware My Lord, the Exodus was to be the final assault against the Dark Ascendancy, designed to push them from this Realm and hunt them wherever they fled. However, when your ancestors, and mine, pursued the abominations to the Outer Realms, they could not know what they would find. There are many peoples and creatures who call the planets, moons and even the empty spaces of the Outer Realms home. Some of these peoples are as noble as Your Lordship and some others are near as terrible as the arboleth themselves. The Alliance realized that they needed to protect this Realm from all the dangers that lay above us.”

  Ovyrm looked skyward and, despite themselves, many others in the room followed suit.

  “To that end they signed the Accords, a blood oath treaty designed to prevent anyone, or anything, from ever setting foot on Korynn again, on pain of death. They believed that this realm needed time to heal and develop, free of the old influences that had nearly destroyed it.”