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

by C. M. Carney

  Gryph thrust forward but another foul screeching rose in his mind and he winced in agony. He pushed his way through the pain and stabbed with his spear, but first one, then two, then a dozen strands of thick webbing wrapped around his wrists, arms, torso, and legs, tugging him from all directions.

  Myrthendir pushed the second egg into another of the stasis devices and walked to the Nexus table at the center of the room. There he placed the Seal of the Dwarven King into the slot and pushed down. The clang of metal on stone rose in the chamber and a circular pedestal rose up from the stone table.

  Gryph struggled against his bonds bringing the spear’s tip down upon one of the sticky strands of webbing. He sawed at it, slicing through the splice strands.

  “Drop the spear,” Myrthendir said almost absentmindedly, like an exhausted teacher scolding a teen with a spitball.

  Gryph struggled more and the strand of webbing snapped. Another two replaced the one he’d cut, and they wrenched his arm into an impossible angle. The pain forced him to drop his spear, its dull clang of metal on stone echoing through the suddenly silent room. Both men knew what the absence of sound meant.

  “Looks like your friends have given up. Guess it is just you and me now.” Myrthendir closed his eyes and held his hand over a rune covered section of the Nexus table and the walls of the column spun back down into the table, revealing a hollow that contained a skull, a skull bearing a crown of simple iron, encrusted with jewels.

  The Iron Crown rests on the brow of the last Stone King, Gryph thought hearing Errat’s words in his mind. Then a rather macabre thought occurred to him. I'm staring at my own skull.

  Myrthendir reached into the hollow in the pillar, hands hovering an inch from the crown. He closed his eyes as if performing some reverent ceremony, then he pulled the band of cold iron up to his brow. He set the crown onto his head, opened his eyes and stared at Gryph. The movement cast a multihued halo around his head, and he smiled.

  Gryph used Identify on the crown.

  The Iron Crown

  The Iron Crown was the symbol of the Stone King of the Thalmiir, a symbol of his authority over all the Thalmiir. The first Thalmiir High King Durgath the Doom Bringer crafted it as a symbol of authority and unity after his victory over the last Dragon King. Each of the seven gemstones embedded in the band of cold iron is an Icon that represents the power of each of the seven great Thalmiir kingdoms. The six smaller stones represent the six smaller kingdoms, all subservient to Dar Thoriim as represented by the central luminescent diamond.

  Item Class: Elder Artifact - Item Category: Passive/Active.

  Passive Powers.

  Power(s): Unknown

  Active Powers.

  Power(s): Unknown

  Mana Limit: Unknown Cool Down: Unknown.

  Icons Slotted: 7 of 7.

  Icon Powers: Unknown.

  What is an Elder Artifact and why does my Identify talent not tell me anything? Gryph gazed upon the wondrous crown. A part of him wondered why the Thalmiir had crafted it from base iron when they had access to more precious metals. The Icons were all many-hued gemstones glowing with internal light.

  “Have you ever possessed real power Gryph?” Myrthendir asked. “Not the martial skills of a warrior or the petty magics of the elements.” He held his hand palm upwards and let arcane fire dance across it. “But real power? The ability to make another’s mind your own.”

  “Like you did with the Dwellers?” Gryph said, struggling to free himself.

  “Of a sort, I suppose. They were weak of mind, the so-called Dwellers in the Dark, but they served their purpose. A bit over the top and dramatic for my tastes, what with their foolish masks and their inane ceremonies. But, they did provide the perfect distraction. And the irony was too good to pass up.”

  What irony? Gryph thought. I’m missing something here.

  Myrthendir seemed ignorant of his slight faux pas and pushed another rune covered stone on the stone table. A rumble built in the ceiling and a torrent of water exploded from the pipes above them. The sluiceways filled and plunged into the pipes at the far end. The water went from raging to calm as the sluiceways filled. Then a rumble of stone sliding against stone rose, and the wall behind Myrthendir parted and slid into the floor.

  Light globes popped to life one by one, revealing a room that extended hundreds of feet into the mountain. The size of the room was impressive, but what the light revealed was downright terrifying. Thousands upon thousands of tall, featureless men stood silent and unmoving, as if waiting for someone to command them.

  “The warborn,” Gryph said, an icicle of fear punching into his heart.

  “I know nothing of where you come from, this place you call Earth, but I know one thing, we have both been lied to all our lives. They tell us that we are unique, important, that we are here for a higher purpose, part of a great plan. It is a pleasant fiction I once believed. Then my body, my mind, perhaps even my soul was fed upon.” The Prince Regent’s hand moved to the back of his neck, where spine met skull. Fearful fingers hovered above the nape and for a moment, his eyes were distant, and his thoughts were elsewhere. “When all else is stripped away, the truth is exposed.”

  “And what truth is that?” Gryph said struggling against his bonds.

  “That we are alone in an uncaring universe and malevolent beings lurk in the darkness. There is no higher purpose, no Source that loves us all. There is only the endless repetitive cycle of death and rebirth, the here and now, and we are not the masters of the Realms.”

  “I know what you are,” Gryph said.

  A sinister grin crossed Myrthendir’s face “Oh, I doubt that.”

  “You are that darkness. You are an aberrant of the Prime."

  A look of rage crossed Myrthendir’s face and without warning a half dozen of the arachnids close to him imploded as if they’d suddenly found themselves beneath a thousand feet of crushing water. He turned his gaze on Gryph and for the tiniest of moments, Gryph felt as if his own head would implode as well. Then the elf lord calmed and gave Gryph a malevolent grin.

  What the hell was that? Telekinesis?

  “The xydai. He has filled your mind with false understanding. He has no more idea what I am than I once did. I am unlike anything the Realms has ever seen. I am so much more than any of you, and so much less. I am the divine and the base. I am all and nothing.”

  “You think you’re a god.”

  Myrthendir laughed, and it was a genuine laugh, not the wicked chortle of the mad, or the cartoonish muahaha of some maniacal villain. "The gods," he said with a dismissive wave. "The gods are petty power brokers who use fear, violence, and lies to sway the masses. They are pathetic, seeking to force their small order on the peoples of the Realms. You know the truth as well as I that civilization stands forever on a precipice and all it needs is the slightest of nudges to fall into chaos."

  “And you plan to give the world a nudge?”

  “You don’t see, even now?” disappointment crossing his face. “I’d hoped you of all people would understand.”

  “Why would I understand?”

  “I felt it on the Deep Water. You and I are more alike than you admit. You have seen some of what I have seen.” He held out his hand. “I will show you more.”

  Visions exploded in Gryph’s mind. Arboleth larva, all voracious teeth, and tentacles digging into his brain. The Prime armada soaring down upon Korynn, laying waste to cities and towns. An army of xydai led by illurryth sorcerers and overseen by arboleth in their massive, floating tanks of water and elementum. Mighty armies falling before the onslaught of the Dark Ascendency, cities razed, kingdoms destroyed. For all of this Gryph was a bystander, unable to move or help.

  Then came the worst of it all. A planet conquered and hundreds of arboleth working in concert, performing a ritual, casting a spell on a massive scale. Fear bit into Gryph as he stood on the blasted plains of the world he now called home and looked skyward as a cancerous infection ate away at the ligh
t of the sun turning the world dark.

  “They are coming. You know it to be true. You have heard their call in the back of your mind.”

  Gryph had heard, and he had tried to pretend he had not. A horrid truth filled Gryph. He felt it in his bones and in his soul. The Prime were far worse than Ouzerio the Barrow King, who had sacrificed the eternal souls of uncounted thousands to extend his horrid half-life. They were worse than Aluran whose threats of murder and violence were just the tip of the evil he was capable of.

  The Dark Ascendancy was coming. Gryph knew it to be true and knew they were a danger greater than any he had yet encountered in the Realms, and it was coming for them all.

  “Yes, you see it don’t you? The Prime will not rest until they extinguish all life, until nothing but Prime remain.”

  “And you want to help them?” Gryph said and spat. “They will never accept you.”

  “I'm not going to help them,” Myrthendir raged, causing nervous skittering among the arachnids. “I will crack open their watery prisons and turn them into coffins.”

  “That is why you need the warborn?”

  “The warborn?” Myrthendir laughed. “They are mere tools, impressive ones if our friend Errat is any indication, but tools, nonetheless. They are a means to an end, but they are not the weapon the Thalmiir were so desperate to protect. You know that don’t you?”

  The look on Gryph’s face spoke volumes.

  “Oh, my foolish friend you disappoint me, you are not who I’d hoped you were. When we first met, I sensed another mind touched by the Prime that was somehow still free and I rejoiced. Here I thought was someone like me, someone strong enough to do what must be done.”

  “I will not help you.”

  “We shall see. I had hoped you would join me willingly, see that what I do is necessary, but one way or another you will help me destroy them.”

  “Work with me then, not against me,” Gryph begged.

  Sadness, perhaps even loneliness crossed Myrthendir’s face. He went silent, staring at Gryph with melancholy as a moment of debate raged inside the aberrant elf prince. Then Myrthendir’s eyes went from Gryph to something behind him.

  Gryph could not turn, but a sizzling hiss grew and then a deep orange glow backlit him. The sound grew louder, and a jet of superheated air blasted into the room, bringing an instant sheen of sweat to Gryph’s skin. Worse whatever small chance Gryph had of swaying Myrthendir burned away in the heat.

  “Your friends are persistent, I’ll say that for them, but they are too late.” He pushed down on another of the rune-covered stone buttons. For a moment nothing happened, but then yet another rumble of stone on stone thrummed into Gryph. It was a sound he was growing very tired of hearing. A circular depression on the floor in front of the table irised open and a large cube of cast adamantine rose from the depths.

  Identify gave him no information, but he knew one thing, this, not the warborn, was the weapon Thalmiir had sacrificed their city to protect.

  “You already know that the last Stone King went mad, but do you know why?”

  “I’m bored with your tales.”

  “No, you’re not,” Myrthendir said with a grin. “Like me, you understand that true power lies in knowledge. It is amazing what you can learn if you know where to look.” He removed the arboleth egg from the stasis container and held it up to the light. The larva inside the opaque sack spasmed in fury. Gryph felt the clarion call of the aetherial monstrosity tug at his mind once more. The larva knew who he was, knew that he had killed its parent. No, that was not accurate, not its parent, but its former self. This larva was not an offspring of the arboleth Gryph had slain, but a continuation.

  Gryph had no time to contemplate the horror of that truth as Myrthendir spoke again, eyes glued to the arboleth egg.

  “Did you know the last Stone King had one of these? It was plundered during an Alliance raid. He believed it could help him defeat the Prime. Had he been stronger of mind he would have been right. But he was a desperate and broken man, and the Prime used those weaknesses against him.”

  The once luminescent diamond at the crown's brow flared with darkness, sucking in the light around it and Gryph felt a deep sadness seep into his soul. Myrthendir waved his hand over the cube and a section of wall flowed apart revealing a small alcove. He eased the leathery sack into the slot and the cube wall flowed closed. The pressure in Gryph’s mind disappeared and for a moment the world was silent. Then, from deep inside the cube a low hum rose at the edge of hearing, like a distant swarm of bees.

  “By the time his artificers had finished building the warborn the Stone King’s mind was gone. He had become an avatar for the Prime, and with their guidance, he built this.” The elf lord placed his hands on the adamantine cube. “It was to be the ultimate weapon in the war, built by a Thalmiir to be used not against the Dark Ascendancy, but by them against all the free peoples of the Realms. This is how the Prime operate. They will tolerate no sentience but their own. They infest, infect and devour.”

  Gryph knew the Prince Regent, this aberrant elf that was both more and less than Prime, spoke the truth, and it terrified him.

  “I ensured that the Prime have seen what I have done here today. They know the weapon is found, and when they return to Korynn, they will come for it.” At Myrthendir’s touch, the top of the cube flowed open and the low humming grew to the cacophonous buzzing of rage. “I say, let them.”

  A torrent of black fog zipped up and out of the vessel, spinning and twirling in the air, like a million tiny mites on the hunt for prey. The black fog soared and twined into the air above Myrthendir and stopped like a predator sizing up its prey. It pulsed and throbbed, spun upwards and flew at Gryph.

  32

  The heat coming off Avernerius’ blade pummeled into them like a tsunami. Ovrym and Tifala took involuntary steps back. Errat shielded his eyes. Only Wick seemed unfazed by the punishing heat, reaching a hand close to the inferno and grinning like a fool.

  Whiffs of heat and smoke flowed off the blade and twisted towards the warlock as if drawn to him by some kind of magnetic field. When they touched his outstretched fingers, they twined around them and were absorbed, sucked in through the pores of his skin.

  He giggled and turned to Tifala, his eyes the color of glowing coals. “This feels amazing.”

  “I’m sure it does honey, but we’re kinda in a rush here.”

  “Right,” Wick said, but a spasm deep in his gut stopped him short and he smacked a fist to his chest like a man who’d eaten too much rich food. He belched and a jet of flame erupted from his mouth. It tore at the space between Tifala and Ovrym forcing both to dive out of the way. “Oh, shit, sorry.”

  A guttural growl came from Avernerius. Wick wondered if the demon was just displeased by Wick’s heat theft, or if it was something more. It’s probably pissed to be bound to such an idiot.

  Errat helped Tifala and Ovrym to their feet and the adjudicator glared at him. “If we survive this day, I will teach you discipline. Otherwise people will die.”

  “I hope you’re better at it than my father,” Wick said hanging his head in genuine contrition.

  “Can we turn our attention back to knocking down the impenetrable door please?” Tifala asked.

  Wick nodded and looked up at Avernerius. “You guys may want to find something to hide behind.” He gave the massive demon some unseen signal and the abyssal terror gripped its blade of magma in both hands and pushed it into the fissure it had smashed into the door.

  For a moment the door resisted the onslaught of heat. Nobody in the room breathed for several seconds as they watched, but then a dim glow appeared on the surface surging to bright orange. The glow grew brighter, and a hiss rose as molten metal and stone oozed from the wound and splattered to the ground at the demon’s feet.

  Avernerius pushed forward, the massive muscles of its back and shoulders flexing with the effort, and slowly the sword moved forwards. Instinctively, everyone backed up a dozen
feet. Gas and heat built inside the growing puncture and with it pressure. Splatters of molten rock and metal spattered out every few seconds sizzling against the demon’s hide but doing no damage.

  After several moments the blade burst through the door and Wick ordered the demon to remove the blade. Wick tried to peer through, but the puncture was several feet above his head. Under other circumstance his pathetic jumping would have been amusing.

  The demon grumbled again, and Wick turned to Errat. “Can you see anything?” Errat eased forward, his natural resistance to fire, while not as great as Wick’s new immunity, allowed him to get close enough to peer through.

  “I can see Gryph. He is bound by arachnid webbing, but he is alive. Myrthendir is at the control station for the entire city.” Errat turned to the others, his eyes wide in worry. “And he’s wearing the Iron Crown.”

  “Iron Crown?” Tifala asked.

  “It grants the wearer the power to control the weapon.” Errat shifted to get another view and his eyes went wide. “I see my brothers, the warborn,” Errat said in wonder.

  Wick, Tifala and Ovrym exchanged panicked looks and then Wick turned back to Avernerius. With a nod the chthonic monster pushed the hilt of its sword back into the hole and reactivated the blade. Slowly it eased the magma’s cutting power around the perimeter of the door. In a few more minutes they would be through.

  Let it be in time, Wick begged.

  *****

  Gryph tried to move as the contrails of black fog screamed down at him, but the webbing had hardened and held him immobile. Desperate, he sent a surge of mana into his Ring of Air Shield hoping beyond hope that the magical item’s cooldown period had expired.

  He felt the rush of expanding air as the shield activated. The hardened webbing around his hand and forearm shattered, sending splinters of stone in all directions. The air shield enveloped his head and face a second before the black fog, and the wave splattered around the invisible globe like rainwater on a windshield.