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

by C. M. Carney

  “What will it do to you, sister?”

  “We will talk about it later.” She slipped her hand under his arm and helped him to his feet. For a moment her brother’s legendary stubbornness took ahold of him, but then he nodded and let her lead the way.

  “Did you ever sense … it … in him?”

  “No,” she went silent for a moment, trying to process the feelings raging through her. “They must have taken him when the two of you were in the outside world. He never let me get close once you returned. He claimed he had ‘moved on’ from me.” She paused, pain pushing her lips up in a wry smile. “Did you know I haven’t even touched him since he’s been back. Not a single hug, no sisterly peck on the cheek, not even the slightest touch on his arm in seven years. He must have known that I would sense it.”

  “The temple in Gypt,” Barrendiel said in shock. “The one where we found the Dwellers in the Dark. We were separated for days and … they must have taken him then, made him Prime.”

  “He is not Prime, he is something else, something worse.”

  Barrendiel opened his mouth and then unsure what to say closed it again. The siblings walked in silence for several long minutes before a cool breeze flowed over them. They rounded a corner and saw the end of the tunnel and the green of the Sward beyond it. As they emerged Barrendiel took a deep breath as if the fresh air would cleanse away the stains in his mind.

  “How did he take you?” Sillendriel asked.

  “I tracked the Dwellers in the Dark into the catacombs.” She looked at him, a mix of worry and anger. “I know, I should have told someone, but I did not know who to trust. At least one of them is a ranger.”

  A look of shock crossed Sillendriel’s face. “Are you sure?”

  Barrendiel nodded and she could see regret dig into him. He pushed it away and continued. “I found their temple, the place where you found me.” He paused. “It is ancient. I cannot believe they have been down there all this time, hidden among us. How could they…?”

  “Do not try to understand zealotry little brother. There is no logic at work in their madness.”

  He nodded, but comfort did not ease the stress in his shoulders. “They were performing a ceremony when Myrthendir, or the creature he has become, arrived. He took control of them and then they came for me. I ran, trying to get the word out, but they caught me and he pushed himself into my mind. He made me forget. I do not remember how many days ago this was. Then he let me go and I lived my life, unaware that he’d placed something inside me, a switch he could turn whenever he wanted.”

  Sillendriel did not need her abilities to understand what her brother now feared.

  “When he flipped that switch, I was no longer me. I felt like a passenger on a long journey drifting in and out of sleep. Sometimes I remembered the journey, other times I did not. But there were others there with me. He used my Adventure Company perk to control them.”

  “The Dwellers?”

  Barrendiel nodded as they took the last few steps from the catacombs into the clear dawn sky. The air was crisp and cool, and the grass was slick with dew. A slight breeze wafted down from the mountains and flowed through Barrendiel’s hair. His eyes glistened with unshed tears and he turned to Sillendriel.

  “Did I…?”

  “Even if you did, it was not you, not your fault.” She pulled his head onto her shoulder and he wept. She was unsure how long she’d comforted him when a single horn blast split the morning air. It was a sound not heard in Sylvan Aenor in millennia.

  “Dar Thoriim,” Barrendiel said in alarm and they both ran to the Avenue, the long, wide thoroughfare that led from the Deep Water through town and the Sward and all the way to the gates of the Spire. Across the water, as the sun crested the mountains behind them, the towers of Dar Thoriim pushed through the ground, greeting the morning light for the first time in millennia.

  A few seconds later another horn blast rumbled from high atop the Spire. All across Sylvan Aenor people ran from doors and rushed to windows. Among them was Gartheniel, the Steward of Sylvan Aenor, who had slept precious few hours these last several days. He arrived at the gates of the Spire just as Barrendiel and Sillendriel reached them.

  “Assemble the rangers,” Barrendiel said. “And arm every able-bodied man and woman. We are being called to our great purpose.”

  Gartheniel’s eyes flew from Barrendiel to his sister and she nodded. To his credit, Gartheniel asked none of the hundred questions that must have been burning his lips and turned, snapping orders to attendants and guards alike. People scattered making the city ready for war.

  “You are in no shape to lead this fight.” Sillendriel said.

  “I am the Captain of the Rangers of Sylvan Aenor and I will do my duty.”

  Sillendriel stared at her brother, a mixture of fear and pride on her face. She could no more talk her brother from this decision than a tossed pebble could slow a river. She nodded and yelled for a healer. Then she turned back to him. “Well then, I’m going with you.”

  Barrendiel opened his mouth to protest and then closed it. “You always were more stubborn than me.”

  She looked across the sparkling Deep Water to the dozens of towers poking from the mountain on the far side. She had spent her entire life staring at that mountain, dreading the day when the vision in her mind became a reality. She looked on that vision now.

  “What happens today will decide the fate of all the Realms.”

  35

  Wick watched in horror as the buzzing stream of black fog erupted from his friend’s nose and mouth, leaving him in some kind of zombie state. The snakelike cloud of fog soared upwards, spun and then dove into an odd metal box.

  “Gryph?”

  The buzzing grew louder and more intense and the black fog surged from the metallic box and flew towards them. On instinct he sent a Chthonic Bolt screaming towards this strange enemy, but the twining tendrils parted, and the bolt of crimson energy flew harmlessly past.

  It increased speed and dove at them.

  The fog reached Ovrym first, circling his head like a swarm of angry bees before plunging down and into his mouth and nostrils. The xydai’s horrid scream lasted long, agonizing seconds before he went silent. The fog erupted from his mouth, now thinner and less dense. It twined up and into the air and plunged back into the adamantine cube.

  “What the hell?” Wick yelled. Without taking his eyes off of Ovrym Wick bellowed. “Avernerius, kill Myrthendir!”

  The abyssal terror activated his sword of magma and ran towards the Prince Regent. He was barely halfway to the control panel when several dozen arachnids fired webbing at the monstrous chthonic demon. The first several stands didn’t even slow the beast down, but then ten, twenty, a hundred of the sticky ropes took hold and the demon slowed to a crawl.

  The fiery beast swung its claymore and several dozen of the automatons melted and exploded. Then a hundred more strands wrapped up Avernerius’ sword arm and held it fast. The demon tried to pull away the sticky substance with its free hand, but only trapped that hand as well. The arachnids cocooned the demon and pulled it from its feet. Had Wick been a man of Earth instead of a gnome of the Realms, a vision of Gulliver versus the Lilliputians would have filled his mind.

  The demon hit the ground with a boom and his magma sword extinguished as it fell from his grasp. Several hundred more jets of webbing secured the demon to the ground, where it roared in fury, before more webbing covered its mouth gagging it.

  “Well, shit,” Wick grunted, pushing Tifala back.

  Ovrym stood rigid as a statue and then his yellow eyes opened, the whites now swimming with hundreds of tiny black dots. He turned and swung his saber at Errat, who barely blocked the adjudicator’s surprise blow with his axe. Errat stumbled backwards as another stream of the microscopic mites forced themselves into his mouth and nose.

  The warborn hacked and coughed and Ovrym turned from him and launched himself at Wick. The xydai stabbed down at the gnome with a machine-lik
e precision and Wick ducked, barely avoiding a decapitating blow. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Behind Ovrym, Errat was on his knees hacking and coughing. He opened his mouth and vomited up the stream of black. It pulsed from him and spun into the air where it slowed, turned into a white ash and faded in the wind. Errat stood, his expression one of furious anger as he grabbed Ovrym by the wrist, arresting another blow that would have taken Wick’s arm.

  The xydai turned in surprised rage, but before he could react the massive warborn tossed him back over his head with all the effort of a litterer tossing an empty beer can from a car window. Ovrym smashed against the far wall and fell in a heap, unconscious.

  “You’re immune?” Wick asked in awe.

  “I am Errat. I am wrong,” the warborn said, as if that simple explanation explained anything at all.

  “Not sure that’s an answer,” Wick said, but his eyes went wide as another streamer of black spun up and behind the warborn. It changed direction and tore down, splitting into two streams as it moved around a clumsy swing of Errat’s axe and soared into Wick, scouring his throat and nostrils.

  *****

  From the depths inside his mind prison Gryph screamed as the mites bore into Wick. His body stood rigid, his blank face revealing none of the turmoil that boiled inside him. Then a pulse of warmth spread like a vortex of wellbeing from the center of his forehead and pinpricks of light exploded against his eyelids. Millions of the tiny magical machines infesting Gryph’s brain turned to points of light as the healing warmth extinguished them.

  His eyes snapped open, and he knew that the Godhead had cleansed him of the infection. How?

  Gryph looked around to see Wick shaking as the infectious mites took control of him. For the briefest of moments, he wondered why his friend’s skin was now a deep purple, but he had no time to dwell on it.

  Tifala rushed to Wick’s side and took his head gently in both hands, trying to ease his seizure. Green light flowed from her hands into his head and he calmed. Another stream came at her from behind. Gryph tried to yell a warning, but his throat was so scoured by the mites that his voice came out a bare croak.

  Gryph watched helpless as the mites took control of Tifala just as her spell freed Wick. The gnome looked at her with total understanding as the woman he loved, the woman that had cured him instead of saving herself, was taken by the mind robbing power of the black fog.

  I cannot let this weapon escape the city, Gryph realized. Even if it means we don’t either.

  Wick, frozen by fear, watched Tifala’s face turn towards him with emotionless purpose.

  “Wick, move!” Gryph yelled, but the gnome stared, as if paralysis had taken him. Gryph tossed his rope as Tifala drew one of her life enhanced blades, a short curved sword of pulsing green light.

  The arcane light of Animate Rope flared around his hand again. The rope whip snapped as if alive and wrapped itself around Tifala’s arm as her sword thrust down.

  Her blank expression did not change as the rope stopped her from landing a killing blow. Wick’s shoulders slumped as the truth that his love had nearly murdered him filled his mind.

  “Wick, get your tiny ass up and move!” Gryph yelled, but the warlock could not take his eyes off the impassive murder machine with the face of his love. Gryph ran towards them as Tifala strained against the rope. Gryph used Compel, but felt no conscious mind push back through the link, just cold purpose.

  Tifala’s other hand drew her second blade from her waist and she stabbed downwards. Wick moved at the last second, preventing the blade from piercing his heart, but it bit down into his shoulder. He screamed and Gryph knew it was only partially from the physical pain.

  Tifala yanked the dagger free and brought it high. “Tif, please no,” Wick begged, but the one-time gentle gnome Life Master didn’t even acknowledge his despair. She thrust down again, but this time it clanged against the metal of Gryph’s spear.

  Tifala’s head snapped towards Gryph as she flailed at him. He dropped his spear and caught her wrist and cast Water Blast with his free hand. Water pummeled into her and she spun back like a boat in a tsunami to smash against the front of the control table. Something crunched in her as she hit the hard stone of the table and Wick whimpered.

  A pang of guilt shot through Gryph, but he retrieved his spear and dragged the gnome to his feet. “We must fight.”

  “I will not hurt her,” Wick said with desperate conviction.

  “Nor will I, if I can help it, but we cannot allow her, or Ovrym, to hurt us either.”

  Xeg ported next to Tifala and then squealed and ported again as she swung her life blade at him in a wide, clumsy arc. The blow to her head slowed her but had not knocked any awareness into her. The imp ported onto Wick’s shoulder and smacked him upside the head.

  “What you do pretty lady?”

  Wick didn’t move, didn’t even complain at the imp’s mistreatment. He could not take his eyes off Tifala. Gryph pulled both gnome and imp to their feet. Wick stole a glance at Gryph, one full of desperation and pleading. One that begged Gryph to tell him what to do.

  “We have another problem,” Errat said and backed his way to them, shielding them from the encroaching swarm of arachnids. Each swipe of his massive axe shredded and crushed several automatons, but more kept coming.

  Gryph made a quick assessment of the situation. Both Ovrym and Tifala were getting to their feet, shaking off the effects of their wounds. I need to take them out of the equation. His eyes snapped to a length of chain hanging from the ceiling, the links twisted with the remnants of ancient fibers. Gryph guessed it had once held some kind of tapestry that had fell to the ravages of the passing millennia.

  He cast Animate Rope again, and the chain twined both Tifala and Ovrym, dragging them to the safety of an alcove in the wall. They struggled and pulled at their bonds with no hint of emotion. Gryph feared they would damage themselves, but he could not spend any mental effort on the worry and forced his mind back to the battle.

  While he’d been distracted Myrthendir had ordered the black fog into the cavernous chamber where the warborn slumbered. Gryph watched as the mites swirled down and into several of the massive warriors. Bodies convulsed and then eyes snapped open swimming with black.

  “We need to get to Myrthendir,” Gryph said. “He is somehow controlling the weapon.”

  “Yes, the Iron Crown controls the black fog,” Errat said.

  “We need Avernerius,” Wick said.

  All eyes turned to the prone demon struggling against the sticky webbing that bound it. Gryph knew the strength of those strands and doubted even the mighty abyssal terror could tear himself free. A childhood memory popped into Gryph’s mind, one that involved an old barn, dozens of spiderwebs, a cigarette lighter and a beating from his father after he’d almost burned the whole barn to ash. He looked down at the imp and a plan formed in his mind.

  “Xeg,” Gryph said and the imp’s eyes turned to him. “Burn.” The imp grinned and ported from Wick’s shoulder to the struggling mound of sticky fibers that was the abyssal terror. Twin jets of flame flared from the imp’s outstretched hands and the webbing charred and parted.

  Avernerius roared, not in pain, but in delight and soon the lumbering hell beast was free. It looked down at Xeg, a wicked grin of dagger length teeth splitting its face and Xeg pointed at Myrthendir. “Kill!” Avernerius’ monstrous sword reformed from nothing, a molten totem of magma and flame. He roared and rushed at the elf lord.

  “Did it just take orders from Xeg?” Wick asked, bewildered. The question hung unanswered as the arachnids breached Errat’s defenses drawing all their attention. Wick drew energy to the end of his staff and spun, smashing his way through the machines. Errat and Gryph both became swirling scythes of destruction and soon the detachment of arachnids sent at them lay shattered at their feet.

  A clang like a massive bell being rung rushed over them as Avernerius brought his weapon down upon Myrthendir. The sword bounce
d off an invisible field of energy that shimmered a dull gray under the corona of flames surging off of the demon’s blade. Avernerius, it seemed, had taken none too kindly to being bound. It attacked again, doubling down on both speed and intensity.

  Myrthendir fell to his knees, his staff skittering away under the blows. The elf lord pumped mana into his shield and Gryph hoped Avernerius could smash his way through, when a torrent of the black fog swirled up and behind the massive demon and flew into his roaring mouth.

  Avernerius collapsed, the noise of his hacking cough sounding like an earthquake. The demon quivered and its muscles flexed as it tried to fight off the infection. Then it fell forward and collapsed. For a moment everyone in the room just stared at the prone demon, waiting to see what would happen. Gryph locked eyes with Myrthendir whose lips curled into a wicked grin as the demon stumbled to its feet. It swayed for a moment, before finally turning to look at Gryph, Wick and Errat. The demon’s eyes swam with black mites.

  “Shiiiiittt!” Wick howled as the demon sprinted towards them.

  “You make mad,” Xeg said.

  Errat leapt forward and swung his axe at the demon, but Avernerius blocked the blow with a casual backswing. Errat spun away from the contact and sunk his axe into the demon’s side. It grunted in pain and gave the warborn a look that may have been grudging respect before punching him in the face with his free hand. Errat flew back, his axe clattering from his hand. Gryph sent a Flying Stalactite at the demon before he could get his guard up. The stone spear bit into its shoulder between two of the magma plates, slowing it.

  Wick raised his hands high in a casting gesture that Gryph had never seen and then thrust down towards the floor. A rift to the chthonic realm opened and a swirling vortex of blood red smoke and jagged spears of putrescent yellow lightning exploded into the room and spun towards the demon. As it got close a feral noise, like the chittering of angry monkeys pulsed from the vortex, followed by dozens of tiny, claw tipped hands.

  A flash of childhood glee pushed into Gryph’s mind as he remembered the cartoon character the Tasmanian Devil. Under different circumstances Gryph would have laughed, but this was far from a normal situation.