by C. M. Carney
Gryph stifled a laugh.
“Why?” Errat asked, his head cocked curiously.
Wick opened his mouth, but words must have escaped him because he shut his mouth without commenting further.
“It is the custom of our people,” Tifala said.
“But pants make Errat feel itchy; down here.” Errat moved his hand in a circular motion that encompassed his blank groin.
“How can you be itchy when you don’t have any…? You know, I don’t want to know, but I would really feel better if we all followed the … um, custom.”
“Okay, friend Dinkwick.” Errat then turned and bent over to rummage through a chest. Everyone in the group, except Wick, turned their eyes away, not wanting to discover if the backside was as lacking as the front.
A few minutes later the group, followed by the swarm, walked through the large entrance chamber. At its far end, a long passage led deeper into the city. The group eased into the tunnel. The ground was no longer the smooth stone of the rest of the city. Here individual slabs made up the floor, reminding Gryph of paving stones. An eerie silence hung in the air and the unease of his fellows built around him.
Wick crept forward on light feet. He took exaggerated steps, like a man walking on thin ice. It was comical for a few seconds until his foot came down onto one of the paving stones with a small click.
“Stop,” Gryph hissed, as an image of roadside bombs flashed through his head. “I think you’ve stepped on a trap.”
“Yes, many traps this way,” Errat said. “Exploding traps. Fire traps. Traps that shoot lightning. Traps that shoot darts filled with poisons. Traps that fall open and drop into pit with spike bottoms. All clean and neat."
“What?” Wick sputtered as he tried not to move. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Errat know path through. Thought new friends know too,” Errat said with simple innocence.
“How … could … we … know?” Wick growled each word slowly so as not to set off the trap.
“Errat feels traps in aether. Wick cannot feel?”
“No!” Wick yelled and his knee shook with the effort. Another small click popped from beneath the floor. His eyes widened, and he turned his pleading gaze at Gryph. “Help,” he mouthed.
“Everyone move back,” Gryph said. He pulled his locksmithing kit from his satchel and got onto his stomach, easing himself forward. As he got closer his Perception skill came into play and he could see a faint red outline along the edge of the paving stone. He took a moment to inspect the edge, seeking a pinhole where he could insert the fine tools. This was the first time he’d made use of his Traps skill since he’d face planted on arrival in the Barrow. It had been one of the imported skills assimilated from his real-world experiences. Let’s hope this thing works the same as a claymore.
Gryph inserted the thin tool into the slot and searched. His finger’s tactile sense expanded along the thin tool to a tightly drawn wire attached to a triggering mechanism. “Wick. Stand very still. This thing is live.”
“What do you think I’m doing?” the gnome grumbled.
Gryph knew standing as still as Wick needed to right now was much harder than it seemed. Muscles twitched and unconscious motions were the norm. Add in the stress of imminent death and standing still was nearly impossible. Gryph hoped that whatever mechanism controlled this trap was not as sensitive as modern armaments back on Earth. If they were, this would likely end very suddenly; for both of them.
Sweat trickled down Gryph’s brow as he worked. He eased the tool in further, trying to find a latch holding the wire tight. If he was right, the pressure Wick was applying downward had released a pin designed to stop the wire from pulling a triggering mechanism. Now the only thing stopping the trap from going off was the gnome’s weight, and if he lifted his foot, the trap would go off. Gryph tried to ease the tension off the wire, but could not get his second tool into the small hole to hold the trigger long enough to release the wire’s tension.
“You cannot disarm the trap,” Errat said in a casual tone.
Wick scowled but did not move. Gryph glanced up and locked eyes with the gnome. “He’s right. I cannot disarm it. I’m sorry.”
Tifala gasped in fear and from the corner of his eye Gryph saw Ovyrm stop her from rushing forward.
“Great, escape the Barrow to end up murdered by a death floor. This place sucks,” Wick said, and his fear turned to resignation. He looked down on Gryph. “Move back, I will not take you with me.” Gryph began to argue but then nodded. He could hear Tifala weeping behind him as he slowly eased back, careful not to buffet Wick’s legs.
“Maybe I can use Animate Rope to drag you off the pressure plate.”
“I have encountered these devices before,” Myrthendir said. “They are too fast.”
“You know what Prince, I don’t like you all that much,” Wick said. The gnome’s shoulders slumped, and he whispered. “Tif, my heart and stars, I love you and I never deserved you.”
“Shut up you idiot, we’re getting you out of this,” Tifala said, trying to sound strong through her terror. Gryph walked up to her and pulled her into an embrace.
“You take care of her Gryph. Promise me.”
“I promise,” Gryph said.
Errat walked up and eased one of his thick fingers under Tifala’s eye, catching a tear. He pulled his finger close to his face, examining the small drop of liquid as it flowed down to his palm. He closed his hand around the tear and closed his eyes. A low hum came from inside him and his eyes opened.
He turned towards Wick and two of the arachnids moved slowly up to each side of the gnome. Wick’s leg started shaking. Soon the motion would set off the trap. The automatons slowly lowered their forelegs onto the edges of the pressure plate. With all the care of a surgeon they slowly pressed down.
“You can move now,” Errat said.
For a moment Wick did not, or perhaps could not, move. A tense pause built until he forced himself to ease his foot off the pressure plate. Five hearts pounded as his weight came off the trap, fearing an imminent explosion. Wick’s legs gave way, and he fell backwards onto his ass. Ovyrm and Gryph dragged him to safety.
The two arachnids did not move. Errat bent down and stroked each one lightly, making sure not to add too much pressure to his farewell. The odd man stood and walked past Gryph and the others. “You should stand back.” They rushed back down the passageway and an odd expression that may have been sadness crossed Errat’s face. “Goodbye.”
The two arachnids released the pressure, and the world exploded with a blinding flash.
23
Thunderous bolts of lightning exploded from the walls zapping the spot where Wick had just vacated. Electricity surged in ragged arcs, cracking into the stone floor and tearing apart the bodies of the two arachnid automatons. The group threw arms in front of their eyes desperate to shield their vision from the blinding light.
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, company. 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.