by C. M. Carney
Wick’s flame seared through the span and he closed his mouth, cutting off the flame. A loud burp, accompanied by puffs of smoke, rumbled forth and Wick slapped his chest a few times like a man easing habanero induced gastrointestinal stress.
Back up boys, Wick sent through the link. They backed up while Avernerius continued to swing his sword, keeping the enemies off their back. Wick opened his mouth again and more of the flame belched forth. Half a minute later the span snapped and fell into the Deep Water, the white-hot edges casting a cloud of steam about them.
A thunderous roar of pain rose, ruining their moment of victory and Gryph spun to see dozens of arbalest bolts, arrows and spells punch into Avernerius. The demon stumbled and lurched forward, tossing Xeg from his horny perch and dumping him into the midst of the enemy forces.
Xeg, Wick screamed through the link, chased by a flash of embarrassment. Before anyone could react to the emotional outburst Xeg ported back onto Errat’s shoulder.
No worry purple goober, Xeg okay. Nice know love Xeg though.
I don’t…., came Wick’s embarrassed response, but then Avernerius fell onto his face, pin cushioned by dozens of fletched shafts and dotted with a dozen smoking craters. His body slammed onto the bridge, crushing several enemies who’d stayed too close.
Bye, bye puny demon, Xeg thought and then Avernerius’ body disappeared in a flash of chthonic flame.
You really need to learn the meanings of words, imp, Wick thought.
No call Xeg imp, Xeg way more than imp.
What is imp? Errat asked.
Can we focus people? We have an army bearing down on us and we lost our tank. Gryph thought, and dual cast Water Blast. He aimed the combined jets of water at the approaching enemy, tossing several from the bridge and dousing the entire span. He continued to blast warborn and elves into Deep Water, buying as much space between the enemies and his people as he could.
The jet ended as suddenly as it had begun and Gryph raised his spear above his head and waited. The warborn were first to their feet, and they marched with calm purpose towards them once more. As they got closer, the tip of Gryph’s spear flowed with sparks. He saw Wick glance at him nervously. Stand back, he thought and waited, heart thundering at the emotionless wave of death that moved at him.
Um, now would be a good time.
Not yet.
The warborn lowered their spears and continued their advance. Wick backed away.
How about now?
Wait for it.
The closest warborn pushed his spear forward and Gryph activated Dodge and then punched the butt of his spear onto the bridge. Yrriel’s Maelstrom discharged and a bolt of chain lightning blasted from the spear and tore a ragged hole through the chest of a warborn so close that Gryph could smell the charring flesh as he died.
Tendrils of electricity twined around the dead man’s legs conducted by the water Gryph had blasted at him and he fell, spasming as the last discharges pulsed through him. Despite the warborn’s innate 50% resistance to all magical damage, his initial strike had still killed the bipedal automaton. Was it the proximity?
A dozen more bolts exploded from the tip of Gryph’s spear and thrummed into every warborn within 20 feet. None of the others were killed, but they still took a whopping 234 points of damage. Several collapsed to their knees, stunned. It pushed another twenty off the bridge and into the lake.
That worked well. Let’s do that again, Wick sent.
Can’t. It has an hour cooldown period, and I used the last of my charges. It’ll take a day to recharge enough to use that attack again.
Well, we’re up dung brook without an oar.
Gryph gave the gnome a sideways glance but realized questioning the odd similarity of cultural colloquialisms separated by literal universes was not the best use of his time in the current situation.
Gryph, Wick, Errat, Grimliir and Xeg each killed several of the downed warborn before they could recover, but beyond the area of effect of Gryph’s attack dozens more stood in a formation that would have made the Roman Legions look sloppy.
What are they waiting for? Wick sent.
The formation parted like water and two figures emerged from the ocean of warborn.
No, no, no, I can’t do this, Wick blubbered through the mental link.
Tifala and Ovyrm stood at the front of the warborn. Ovrym danced his way through a series of sword forms while Tifala drew green life energy into her hands. A tense silence hung over the lake broken only by Wick’s whimper. Gryph put a steadying hand on his friend. Easy, Wick.
Easy. What in the abyss are you talking about? I will not hurt her.
Nor will I.
That’s gonna kinda put a crimp on our ability to live, don’t ya think?
Why are my brothers not attacking? Errat asked.
Jerk not elf want make dumbheads suffer. He fit in real good in Bxrthygaal.
Gryph knew Xeg was right. Myrthendir knew he could send a hundred warborn or El’Edryn at them and they would kill them. They would not want to, but they would. But, there was no way any of them would harm Tifala or Ovyrm. He wants to torment us.
I still have dibs on that kick to the nut sack.
They had no time to ponder on Myrthendir’s strategy before their friends attacked them. Ovyrm came at Gryph, his blade a blur of glinting red light. Gryph activated Parry and blocked the attack. The xydai pushed with his prodigious strength and Gryph grunted with the effort but recognized the adjudicator’s position would soon result in Gryph being exactly where Ovyrm wanted him.
The xydai was already the superior fighter, and Gryph’s unwillingness to do the man terminal damage further handicapped his options. He needed to change the rules of the contest and quickly. Ovyrm, perhaps sensing his thoughts danced backwards, taunting him from afar.
Gryph realized the distraction too late and a half dozen vines sprouted from the bridge and twined his legs, immobilizing him. His eyes flashed to Tifala protected by a shimmering green field.
Errat swung his axe back and forth, taking chunks of health from the magical barrier, but was careful not to hurt the diminutive life mistress. Xeg tried to port inside Tifala’s sphere of energy, but kept getting bounced back, muttering under his breath in the chthonic tongue. Wick stood motionless, unable to bring any attack against his love.
Wick, Gryph sent through the link. Do something. But Wick did not move.
Handsome baldies and pointy heads moving.
Gryph saw that the closest warborn and rangers were advancing on them. Shit!
We have them, Grimliir said, nodding at Errat.
The giant warborn smiled, understanding his father’s look. Little red man, shield please.
Xeg ported onto the warborn’s shoulder and a crimson sphere of energy flowed from his tiny hands, surrounding both imp and construct as a volley of fired arrows impacted. They were not imbued, and the shield held.
The metal clad father and his eunuch son ran towards the coming enemy. Grimliir took up a defensive position next to Errat and rapid-fire arbalest bolts flew from his raised arms. They flew towards the approaching enemies killing elf and warborn alike.
Errat extended his hands forward, and the air shimmered like a mirage above a distant desert road. The bridge seemed to warp as the stone took on a rubberlike consistency. Errat moved his hands up and down like a maid shaking out a blanket before making a bed. The surface of the bridge buckled, and the enemy scattered like drops of water from a shaking dog.
It knocked dozens off their feet and tossed them from the bridge. Nice job, Gryph sent as the duo rushed towards the enemy line, but then Tifala’s vines contracted, pulling his attention away from the odd duo as they disappeared amidst a swarm of enemy combatants.
Gryph grimaced in pain. Ovyrm walked up to him and placed the point of his sword at Gryph’s heart. The xydai’s eyes were blank and his expression seemed almost bored, but his sword arm was shaking.
Gryph grabbed the xydai by the arm and cast
Mind Shield, pushing the spell into Ovyrm’s mind. “Fight it Ovyrm,” Gryph whispered. The xydai’s eye twitched and his sword arm dipped an inch. “Fight!” Gryph cast Animate Rope and watched as the length of spider silk eased up and around the xydai. Gryph activated the rope’s Compel ability.
“You are Ovyrm Nightslayer, adjudicator and enemy of the Prime. Resist.”
Ovrym shook and his mouth opened in a noiseless scream. Tears flowed from the corners of his eyes and his sword arm dipped even further. The swirling black mites in the whites of his eyes faded and Gryph saw a moment of recognition in the xydai’s eyes.
“Gryph. Kill me. Please.” His eyes swirled again as the black fog reasserted dominance.
“I will not, but I must end your threat.” Gryph cast Halo of Air around the xydai’s head and then pushed mana into his bracers. The xydai pushed his sword downward as Gryph unleashed the power of his bracers. Waves of magnetic force pulsed from Gryph’s hands. They warped around the metal of Ovyrm’s armor, gripping and then shoved the xydai backwards and over the edge of the bridge.
Wick still stood motionless, eyes stuck on his love. She ran at him, drawing life energy into her blades, but still he stood paralyzed.
“Wick, move dammit!”
Finally, some sense returned to the gnome, and he summoned a pair of his own chthonic swords in time to block Tifala’s attack. She swung several more times, fierce and calm, and he parried again and again, but refused to counterattack.
Wick blocked another of her blows, but then one of her daggers disappeared and she unleashed Water Blast at him. He gagged and choked and was knocked off his feet. Tifala redirected the stream shooting Wick along the bridge like a cork in a champagne bottle.
“Wick!” Gryph screamed and turned his hands palm forwards and unleashed a Water Blast of his own. Tifala’s water blast ceased, and she raised a life shield. The water pulsed across the shield for half a minute before ebbing. Tifala marched towards him.
Gryph activated his Ring of Air Shield and the vines along the right side of his body exploded outward. Tifala brought more green life energy to her hand and more vines shot from those still twined around the left side of his body. They wrapped him up again and tightened. His arms twisted forcing his open palms to point at his face.
Tifala walked up to him. She moved her fist, and the vines pulled Gryph lower matching her height. She stared into his face and the swirling fog staining the whites of her eyes swirled and cleared and she smiled at Gryph.
“Tifala? Are you okay?”
Tifala’s lips turned up into an unfamiliar smile and then words that were not hers came in her voice. “Hello Gryph.”
“Myrthendir, let her go you bastard.”
The aberrant elf turned Tifala’s hands back and forth, like a shopper examining an outfit in a dressing room mirror. “This feels odd. I can inhabit anyone the black fog has taken. It is quite a thrill.” She turned back to him and Myrthendir spoke again. “Which makes me wonder something. How are you immune?”
“Too strong I guess.”
Tifala’s fist twisted again, and the vines gripped tighter forcing the air from Gryph’s lungs. Tifala leaned closer. “It isn’t about strength. That isn’t how the Prime work. They find what you want most and they convince your brain they’ve given it to you. That’s how they gain access and though, deep down, where your soul lives, you know it to be false, your mind does not and your body does not listen to your soul,"
“Too bad cuz yours is destined for the void,” Gryph sputtered as he tried to breathe.
Tifala’s face twisted in anger and Myrthendir brought her blade to Gryph’s neck. “You should have fought by my side. This petty squabble is not the real war. Together we could have been strong, but you chose sentiment over life. I hope it doesn’t bring us all low.”
“You do not fight for us, but for yourself. You are so corrupted you cannot see what you have lost.”
Tifala’s face contorted into a livid sneer. “I’m tired of this conversation,” Myrthendir said and forced Tifala to pull the blade back. “Goodbye.” Gryph saw a blur of motion as the arm slammed forward.
Gryph’s watched the blade pierce Wick’s body before his mind processed the gnome had jumped in front of him, but his soul knew and it screamed. Wick sputtered and purple blood foamed from the corners of his mouth. “Tif?”
Myrthendir’s surprised smile was a blemish on Tifala’s face and he commanded her to shove the blade of green energy further into Wick’s body. Wick shook, his mouth agape in shock and pain and then she pulled the blades free and he crumpled. He stared up at Tifala.
“This is much better. You’ll both get to watch him die,” Myrthendir said.
“I will kill you,” Gryph roared, using every ounce of strength to thrash at his bonds. They remained unmoving.
“That will be fun. Come find me if you are able. I still have so much to show you.” Myrthendir said, twisting Tifala’s face into a capricious grin. Then the elf lord was gone and the black fog turned the whites of her eyes black again. Tifala looked down on Wick, face placid as a mirror calm lake, but inside Gryph knew she was screaming.
Wick reached a weak arm towards her, the pinky of his right hand extended. “Together forever.” The light left his eyes, his arm fell limply to his side, and he was gone.
“Nooooo!” Gryph screamed, and he struggled against the vines holding him. The smallest of whimpers slipped past Tifala’s lips and Gryph saw a tear stream down her face.
41
Myrthendir’s mind withdrew from the female gnome and returned to his body. It was odd being in another’s mind. Not only did he experience all the body did, but he felt their emotions. A part of him wondered why those emotions did not impact him the way they once had, but he discounted the thought. I have shed my weaknesses.
His army marched and grew, growing ever closer to Sylvan Aenor. He was a part of every new mind added to his army, and every mind extinguished as the battle raged. It was such a waste of life, life that should have been bent to his will, life saved to fight the Prime.
He looked at Barrendiel once again under his sway. “Tell them to lay down their arms. There is no more need for bloodshed.” Without comment Barrendiel ran, the army parting before him.
Myrthendir did not expect Gartheniel and the remaining free rangers to comply, but it was worth the effort. He continued his even pace, eyes drawn to the Spire. Soon he would tame them all, and this time, when the Prime came, he would tear them apart and consume them.
He stepped off the bridge and strode towards the Spire, pausing for a moment to tear a few blades of grass. As a child he had loved few things more than the smell of nature. He brought the blade to his nose and inhaled deeply. He smelled nothing, as he had expected, but a scowl twisted his mouth. Another thing to add to the list of reasons the Prime must end.
The sounds of battle dimmed as the army got close to the Spire. The last group of rangers and paladins had secured the doors from the warborn and their onetime companions. Barrendiel stood a safe distance from the doors, having not succeeded in his mission. Myrthendir walked up next to him and the ranger captain knelt.
The doors to the Spire were made from empyrean wood reinforced by adamantine, a gift from the Thalmiir so long ago. They were nearly impregnable, even all these millennia later, but the black fog was no ordinary weapon. It needed but the tiniest of cracks to slip inside and for all its faded majesty, the Spire was still a dead tree, full of small imperfections and gaps more than large enough to grant the microscopic motes of magic access. Still, Gartheniel had long served his people well and Myrthendir would rather he surrendered.
“Gartheniel, old friend, open the doors. There is no further need for conflict. Save our people’s lives. They are needed for the coming fight.”
“You are a murderer and a traitor and I will not be a party to your madness.”
Myrthendir wasn’t surprised and ordered the black fog into the Spire. Dull shouts of anger turned
to terror and then there was silence. A moment later the doors opened and the light of the morning sun sent a beam of light all the way to the Twined Throne. The remaining paladin defenders stood on either side of the entrance like a welcoming honor guard as Myrthendir strode inside.
Gartheniel stood at the end of the assembled honor guard and bowed as Myrthendir reached him. “Rise my old friend. We no longer need to stand on ceremony.” The older half elf snapped back to attention and Myrthendir grinned. “I have always wanted to do that.” He looked down on the Steward as if waiting for a reaction though he knew he would get none.
“My sweet cousin Sillendriel will be in the Bastion with the aged and the children. Bring her and introduce the others to the black fog.” The paladins spun into formation and marched around the dais and the central trunk of the Spire and disappeared from view. The warborn carrying the adamantine cube followed.
“Come Gartheniel,” Myrthendir said and strode up the steps of the dais. He walked up to the chair his father had so long sat in, caressing it with a light hand. “I never wanted this seat” He gave a sideways glance at the impassive Steward. “You don’t believe me, after all of this.” He waved his hands around. “But it is true. I only wanted to serve my people. I had no idea that providence would call me to a higher duty.”
His eyes fell to the living chair top the dais. The Twined Throne had long been the seat of kings, a living symbol of the bond between El’Edryn and the empyrean realm where elvish souls bask in celestial light while they waited for their next life to begin. Despite the centuries, the throne had survived the despair that had taken Aurvendiel.
Myrthendir’s hand traced the living vines of the throne and the thrum of life flowed through him. “I may not have been born to sit in this chair, but men of vision, those history remembers as heroes and saviors, must be bold before they can attain greatness.” Myrthendir turned, smoothed out the layers of his battle robe and sat on the throne.