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

by C. M. Carney

  Gryph hung his head, knowing Wick was right. This was a cruelty that nobody should have to face. But the Realms were bigger than either Wick or Gryph. He looked up and into Wick’s eyes, that now bore spots of yellow mixed into his natural brown. “I cannot stop Myrthendir alone. I need help if we are to save Tifala and Ovrym.”

  Wick pulled back and punched Gryph as hard as he could, but his recently deceased muscles were like jello and the blow hit Gryph in the breastplate. Wick grabbed his hand in pain and anger. “Dammit, I was aiming for your head.”

  Gryph kneeled, offering himself up to Wick. The gnome pulled his fist back again and paused. “I can’t believe I’m going to die again.” He dropped his fist to his lap and looked at Gryph. “Promise me one thing.”

  "Anything."

  “You cannot let her watch me die.”

  Gryph hesitated for a moment before nodding.

  “I also swear,” Errat said and both Gryph and Wick jumped.

  “Ganneth! Where the hell did you come from?”

  “The Crucible,” Errat said after a moment’s confusion.

  “The what?” Wick asked, already annoyed at the massive warborn.

  “You asked where I came from. I was born in the Crucible.”

  “And what the hell is that?” Wick asked.

  “An artifact of great power. It helped my father bestow life upon me.”

  Wick stared for a moment, mouth dropping open and then closing, unsure how to respond to the warborn’s origin tale. “Anyone else have any useless origin tales to tell. I don’t have all day?”

  “No, he might be onto something,” Gryph said and the tall and short men looked at him. “Can this Crucible save Wick?”

  Wick’s eyes went wide and then snapped to Errat, desperate for some good news.

  “I believe so.”

  “Where is it?”

  “At the top of the Artificer’s tower.”

  “And where is that?” Wick said annoyed.

  Errat turned and pointed up and behind them. “That way.”

  A flash of hope filled Wick’s eyes.

  “And where is the entrance to the city?” Gryph asked.

  “Without the port circles being active it is several hours that way.” The large warborn pointed in the opposite direction.

  “Can we reactivate the port circles?” Wick asked.

  “If we had the seal and the time.”

  “We have neither,” Gryph said and looked at Wick, knowing what decision must be made, but giving the gnome the chance to make it. After several moments Wick looked up, placed a hand on Errat’s arm and another on Gryph’s.

  “Help me save Tif.”

  37

  The warborn marched to the thundering sound of ten thousand feet. Most wore mail of plate and chain and most bore swords, axes or hammers, while others were ranged specialists who carried bows or arbalests. An honor guard of ten carried and protected the indestructible cube that housed the black fog.

  The black fog was the true weapon the Thalmiir tried to hide from the world. As impressive as the warborn were, they were just muscle, where the black fog was control, pure and deadly.

  The Prime would soon return, and Myrthendir cursed the ancient Thalmiir for being cowards, for not using the weapon crafted by their mad king. They could have ended the Prime long ago, but they chose free will over victory. He spat at his feet and his mind drifted back to the day, more than a decade ago, when he discovered the first thread in the unwoven tapestry that led him here to this moment.

  In an ancient and long forgotten volume on the rise of the Dark Ascendency, he found a single mention of an attack by the Prime in the darkest days before the rise of the Old Gods. Most historians, even his brothers among the Loremasters of Xynthos, held faith that the Prime had only invaded Korynn once in the year 7,683 AC.

  They attacked without warning and raged over the planet for much of the next two centuries before mysteriously withdrawing. The Alliance wrote glowing histories about their great victory and all the many peoples of Korynn believed to this day that the heroes of old chased the aetherial daemons back to the stars.

  But these were half-truths. Myrthendir found a copy of the lost Writ of Cerrunos rotting in a temple dedicated to the ancient Horned God of Knowledge. The tome was in such bad shape it crumbled to dust when he turned the page. He saw only one passage describing a fierce battle between the Old Gods and “daemons of aether and thought, who followed us from the Outer Realms seeking what we stole from them.”

  Through further study Myrthendir learned these aetherial demons were Prime, and they had invaded Korynn not once, but twice. Their invasions were cyclical, coming every 6,720 years. If this hidden history was accurate, then the Prime would come again in just thirteen short years.

  He brought his evidence before the Loremasters of Xynthos, sure they would alert all the people of Korynn in time to rally to fight the impending Prime invasion. Instead they mocked and ridiculed him for hawking ‘unprovable prophecies.’

  Myrthendir left Xynthos that day, disgusted by the Loremasters’ fear and conservatism. He spent the next several years hunting down evidence to present to his one-time masters. Then, in a sunken ruin deep under the sands of Gypt he found the proof he sought, and that proof found him.

  To this day Myrthendir did not understand how he survived the arboleth, how he resisted the Prime, how he evolved to leave all other sentient beings behind. He was consumed and reborn that day, and now, all these years later, he would fulfill his purpose. Today a new age would dawn, where order ruled over chaos, where all voices were one voice. His voice. Let the Prime come and see what I have become.

  Myrthendir’s thoughts rushed back to the present as the light of the new sun warmed his face. He led his army through the gates of Dar Thoriim knowing only he could destroy the Prime. He cared not for the cost of the victory because failure would mean a fate worse than death. All would come to believe as he did, one way or another.

  The army marched to the water with the gnome woman and the xydai by his side. He looked down on the purple haired life master and saw a tear marring her cheek.

  “Hold fast,” Myrthendir yelled and his entire army came to an immediate halt. Impressive, he thought. No army of free minds could obey commands so quickly. He knelt before Tifala and brushed the tear away with a gentle finger.

  “You feel his loss don’t you. Even through the haze the black fog has draped over you, you still feel. Do not worry, soon I will take away all your pain.”

  The slightest of shivers quaked through Tifala, one Myrthendir would have missed had he not been looking at her. His face became kind, and he leaned in close, whispering into her ear. “You truly loved him didn’t you?” He watched as another tear formed in the corner of her eye. “Your memories will only distract you from our great purpose,” he stood, and the adamantine cube flowed open. The black fog spun up, twined into the air and spun back down towards Tifala.

  She tried to move, but the dominating mites still held her mind. The stream of black spiked into her nose and mouth and she choked and spasmed before her eyes filled with black once more.

  The elf lord pulled his dagger from the sheath at his waist and placed it in her hand. He curled her fingers around the hilt and turned to Ovrym. “Kneel,” he said, and the xydai did as commanded. He turned back to Tifala and smiled. “Cut him for me.”

  Without a hint of hesitation Tifala walked up to Ovrym, and the dagger flashed silver as she swiped the blade across his left cheek. He didn’t even flinch as blood dripped from the clean deep cut.

  Myrthendir smiled at them both and stood. A light breeze brought the smells of the Deep Water to them. He gazed across the lake to the Spire. “It’s time we taught my old friends some hard truths.”

  *****

  The cool morning wind blew through Barrendiel’s hair as he paced back and forth along the quay. Around him the 1,000 Rangers of Sylvan Aenor were ready for battle. Behind them, several thousand armed
citizens of various levels of skill and capabilities stood ready to defend their city from the betrayer Myrthendir.

  Barrendiel’s heart hung heavy. The rangers numbered 1,001 warriors since the day of their founding to honor the 1,000 warriors of Sylvan Aenor and their king that fought the last battle against the Dark Ascendency so long ago. Now they were one down, a lieutenant and one of Barrendiel’s closest advisors betrayed them all.

  He knew the man well, or so he thought, but he was a Dweller in the Dark, a worshipper of the Prime daemons. Had the ranger captain not been a victim of Myrthendir’s aberrant mental scarring, he would have thought the price the lieutenant paid was a fitting punishment. But nobody, not even a traitor, deserved to have their mind shredded, siphoned and replaced by his fallen cousin’s calculated evil.

  Barrendiel shifted his stance and grimaced. The healers worked wonders curing the wounds they could see, but there were deeper wounds that no healing magic could repair. He had been a prisoner of his own mind since his ill-fated mission into the catacombs. A mission where his own cousin, his oldest and most stalwart friend, had filled his mind with a parasitic extension of his own corrupted self and driven his body as if it were a horse cart.

  Barrendiel had been as helpless as a bound captive when Myrthendir spoke words using his mouth, words that would ensure a presumption of guilt against him when he disappeared. That was horrid enough, but then Myrthendir used him to control the Dwellers, to set the trap for the man named Gryph. Barrendiel feared he would never be whole again. Then, his sister found him and gave him a chance to make things right. He would not waste that chance even if it cost him his life.

  Now, as the people of Sylvan Aenor waited for death to descend upon them, Barrendiel sent a silent plea into the aether. Help this man, this player named Gryph. It burned his pride that the survival of his people may well rely on a stranger, but he would bend the knee to this man from Earth if he helped his people live.

  Barrendiel did not know how his cousin broke the soul binding on Gryph’s bag. From what Gartheniel said, removing the Seal of the Dwarven King from the bag was a struggle, one that weakened his murderous cousin terribly.

  If we survive this day, it may well be due to the Steward’s desire to serve. Had he not checked on the Regent, my cousin would have gained both arboleth eggs. But why does he want them? I have seen what he is, and he hates the Prime even more than we do.

  Barrendiel knew one thing. Whatever nefarious plans Myrthendir had for the arboleth eggs, it would spell nothing but ill for all the Realms, starting with his own city, his own people. He truly has fallen that far from the light. The urgent voice of one of his sentries pulled him from his dark thoughts.

  “Sir, movement.” The sentry handed Barrendiel his spyglass, a device of glass and crystal infused with air, life and death magic. Not only did it bring distant objects into focus, but it also revealed the aura of the creatures it viewed. These auras would reveal the creature’s nature. Were they living or undead? What shade of magic did they possess? It acted like an affinity detector and helped the people of Sylvan Aenor ready for many a battle.

  Barrendiel lifted the glass to his eye and focused his gaze. Assembling on the green space across the Deep Water was a large army. He zoomed in to see what they were facing, and an audible gasp escaped him. He berated himself for his uncharacteristic outburst. The last thing his forces needed was to see their commander rattled.

  But I am rattled, he thought and brought the spyglass back to his eye. What in all the Realms are those? The large, man shaped creatures outnumbered his forces ten to one. They swirled with the green of life energy, the brown tinge of earth magic and strangely the dull gray sheen of aetherial. The magic of the Prime? What the hell are these things?

  “What are they sir?” the sentry asked, in a nervous voice.

  “Enemies of the people of Sylvan Aenor,” Barrendiel said in a loud, clear voice. “and we will kill them.” He passed the spyglass back to the sentry, who gave him a tight grin.

  A raucous cheer rose among his men and Swords and bows were raised high. The captain held his own sword aloft in silent salute, a wide grin painting his face with a lie of confidence. Myrthendir still needed to ferry his army across the Deep Water. It should buy us some time and perhaps we’ll be able to pick some of them off while they land.

  A sudden tremor rose and Barrendiel buried a look of shock. He snatched the spyglass from the sentry’s hand and scanned the far waterfront. He spotted his cousin kneeling at the end of the opposite quay, hand to the ancient stones, eyes staring across the lake at Barrendiel.

  A raucous storm of gray light spun around Myrthendir and then passed through his palm and into the ground. The aether was the basic essence of all things, a primal soup of possibility. An adept trained in the sphere could use the primal stuff of the universe to alter reality. There had been few, outside the Prime, to ever master the sphere.

  What is he doing?

  The tremor rose to a rumble and then the Deep Water roiled. Lazy birds, waiting for the telltale signs of fish launched into the air with irritated squawks. The water surged upwards in a direct line between Myrthendir and Barrendiel parting the lake. Waves rushed towards both shores as a span of stone emerged from the lake, a terrifying harbinger of doom.

  Gasps of shock and fear pushed through the armed citizens arrayed behind Barrendiel, but the way his rangers stood in silent readiness filled him with pride. He could not blame the others, for he felt the same fear.

  “Steady,” Barrendiel said in a loud, calm voice.

  Somehow his aberrant cousin had harnessed the deep memory of all things that lay in the aether to rebuild what once was. A tense silence hung in the air as the waves calmed and the water turned glassy once more. A single boom broke the silence as the bass of a massive war drum flowed across the water, then another and another and another. The army moved in time to the sound of musical thunder.

  “Hold fast, hold true. Rangers, to the waterfront. Ranged casters spread out behind them. The enemy will bottleneck crossing the bridge. We must keep them from reaching the shore. For Sylvan Aenor. For the Light!”

  “For Sylvan Aenor. For the Light!” came an answering cheer much more boisterous than Barrendiel could have hoped for.

  38

  Errat led them through the massive city, past abandoned forges and empty shops, through crumbling residential neighborhoods and huge barren underground farms. Their quick pace took the biggest toll on Wick. Whether it was his size, or his recent bout with death, Gryph could not say. Yet Wick would not stop, even when his breathing came in ragged gasps and his legs wobbled. Instead, he downed stamina potions like a frat boy chugging crappy keg beer.

  They emerged into a large cavern filled with towers carved from stalactites and stalagmites. He tried to imagine the city in its prime, bustling with industry, and wondered just how many souls had once called this city home.

  All this ended because a king went mad seeking the power to protect his people.

  He tried to imagine what it had been like for the last king, a man made so desperate by the atrocities of his enemy that he resorted to their methods. That sin had driven him to madness, and now that sin had awoken to lay waste to the world the king had tried to protect.

  Gryph’s fingers traced the spot on his forehead where the Godhead had bonded with him. He had a potential power the equal of the one the Stone King had unleashed. Was he foolish to believe he could tame it? Would his hubris prove as destructive?

  Am I any different from the Stone King?

  A soldier’s training, one drilled into him from his boyhood, lurched up and smacked him. Focus on the mission at hand, said a voice that was not his own. Battles are won or lost before the fighting even starts.

  As much as Gryph hated the man that had fathered him, he knew the Colonel was right. But the Colonel never had to face anything like what we now face, or such horrible odds. They were a motley bunch. A fish out of water player, a soon to be dea
d gnome warlock and a childlike warborn outcast. By contrast Myrthendir had overwhelming superiority in all areas that mattered; numbers, fighting prowess, and weapons. To make matters worse, they had to worry about killing their friends, friends who would try to kill them.

  There was no plan Gryph could envision that would lead to their victory, but he would fight until the end regardless, as would Wick and Errat. He dug his thumbs into his temples, hoping the physical pressure would unlock some long-forgotten strategy that could help them.

  Perhaps it was the stress of the burdens bearing down upon him, but he failed to notice the attack until the shadow fell over them. Gryph rolled away an instant before the stone shattering power of a massive automaton’s foot crashed to the floor.

  Gryph spun and activated Parry, but his spear may as well have been a toothpick for all the good it did him. A huge metal arm smashed into the spear and sent him airborne. He flew a dozen feet before hitting the ground. He tumbled, and the spear fell from his grasp, skittering across the floor.

  The blow would have caved his chest in if not for his lame parry and his breastplate’s high armor class bonus. Regardless he wheezed and suspected at least one of his ribs was broken. But, Gryph was a warrior born and bred, and a surge of adrenaline pushed him to his feet.

  Errat was staring, eyes wide in shock. Gryph was about to yell a warning when the automaton’s foot lanced out and kicked the warborn in the chest. Errat flew backwards and cracked against the stone wall. The automaton turned back and swung at Wick.

  The gnome dove under the automaton’s swing and rolled to his feet. His hands sent a pair of Chthonic Bolts into the creature and Gryph was shocked to hear a mad roar of pain. What the hell? They had taken down dozens of automatons of many shapes and sizes, but not one of them had shown anything like pain or emotion. The automaton turned towards Wick, exposing its back to Gryph. It raised its right arm and pointed its magical flame thrower at Wick.

  “No!” Gryph yelled in anguish as the room exploded in a fiery light and a jet of flame enveloped Wick. Gryph dumped mana into his boots, doubling his speed for a short time, snatched his spear up and leapt at the metal monster’s back.