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  The Lost City

  Book Two of the Realms

  by

  C.M. Carney

  The Lost City - Book Two of The Realms by C.M. Carney

  www.cmcarneywrites.com

  © 2018 C.M. Carney

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact: [email protected]

  Cover by Lou Harper.

  https://coveraffairs.com/

  Dedication

  To Erica

  You are my rock and my heart.

  I could not have written this book without you.

  1

  The shrouded man crept through the crumbling archways and cobweb filled passages in the ancient catacombs deep underneath the city of Sylvan Aenor. The air was heavy with the smell of age and rot, and cobwebs clung to every surface. A false sense of ease crept into the man’s mind, like the most deceptive of lovers, almost convincing him that fear was foolish. After all, the thick layer of dust suggested that nothing had disturbed these hidden byways in untold centuries. No dangers could possibly lurk in these dead hallways.

  But, the man knew different.

  He doubted that any of the thousands of people going about their business above him knew these forgotten tunnels even existed. They are unaware of the rot that grows right under their feet, the man thought. Part of him wished that he did not possess the knowledge that had sent him into these infernal catacombs, but he knew that was foolish, a wish brought on by fear.

  He eased his way through a partially collapsed tunnel, and despite his careful movements, motes of dust drifted down upon him. His night vision extended well ahead of him and his pointed ears detected only silence. He moved with silent grace, his hooded cloak melding into the surroundings with almost organic sentience. Several times he was forced to hold in a sneeze. Down here the noise would carry, announcing his presence to those who crept in the dark, those with ears as skilled as his own.

  His enhanced vision spotted a dim glow ahead, and he dropped into stealth. He pulled a dagger from the sheath at his belt. Like all the metal the man carried, the blade was blackened so no light would reflect from its surface. He'd wrapped all the metal fittings on his dark green armor in black muslin. No errant glint of light or clink of metal would betray his presence.

  Nervous energy rushed through him. The bow that usually crested his shoulder had long provided comfort, but down here, in the cramp and the dark, the bow would have been more burden than boon. While his mind accepted the sound logic of leaving the weapon behind, he felt naked without it. Had he been the superstitious sort, he might have taken that unease as an omen.

  But he was not a man subject to either illogic or sentiment. Tools were tools, and whichever one was best for the job, was the one he would use. Still, deep in the recesses of his mind, he wished for the reassurance of the smooth grip of yew in his hands. He pushed the foolish thought aside as he moved towards the light.

  As he approached the end of the tunnel, his ears picked up a low hum, a chanting that seeped into the deeper range of the man’s hearing. His heart pumped in his chest, nearly drowning out the sound. He paused, steeling himself for what was to come as he reached the end of the tunnel.

  He looked down into a rough-hewn cavern about thirty feet to a side where a thin staircase twisted down from the tunnel to the cavern floor below. Sconces of black metal and stone clung to the walls glowing with flickering gray flames that both illuminated and stole illumination from their surroundings. The unnatural light made the man’s skin crawl, but what it revealed was far more horrible.

  Six robed and masked figures knelt before a statue carved from the naked rock of the cavern wall. A chill of fear flowed through him as he looked down upon the swaying figures and the visage of ancient terror they prostrated themselves before. Tentacles flowed from the beast carved into the wall, two large and four smaller, surrounding a large, singular eye. The eye glinted with a malevolent glare of silver and sapphire, and the stone beast seemed to move in the flickering light.

  Arboleth, the man realized in revulsion and horror and took an involuntary step backward. He knew what he was seeing, but as he stared down upon the ancient enemy of his people, his mind screamed that it could not be real. How could any sentient being work towards their own enslavement? How could any of his own people wish for the return of the Dark Ascendency? The Dwellers in the Dark are here, the man thought.

  Another man emerged from the shadows behind the stone abomination and walked past the undulating tentacles of immobile stone. The figure wore dark robes, and a hood drawn over a mask of silver whose visage was nearly as grotesque as the arboleth’s itself. The eyes shone a cold blue, and a pair of gill-like slits split the cheeks, but it was the mouth that was most terrifying. A mouth full of razor-thin teeth was carved into the mask, and around that mouth protruded four barbed tentacles. Illurryth, the shrouded man thought, stunned. Like its master behind it, the limbs of the illurryth mask seemed to move and flow in the spectral light cast by the braziers.

  Icy fear sunk into the shrouded man’s chest as the masked figure raised its arms over its head. The cultists stopped swaying and ceased chanting. The air hung heavy in the oddly humid room and the man forced calm into his thundering heart, fearing that it would betray his presence in the unnatural silence.

  “Brothers and sisters,” the man said in a clear voice altered by the mask, concealing the identity of the speaker. “We, the faithful, the Dwellers in the Dark, have long awaited the day we would emerge from the shadows into the world above. That day is near. Sillendriel, the Diviner grows more erratic as the visions of the true way tear at the lies she was taught, the lies we were all taught. The others may resist the future, but she senses our time of triumph lies just over the horizon, and when that last dusk falls, we will return the Realms to darkness. The last sunrise is nigh, and we will bring an end to the light.”

  “Darkness is upon us,” the other robed figures responded.

  “Rise,” the Dweller said and bid his flock to stand. “We are few, but our tendrils have sunk deep into the stagnant society that slumbers in ignorance, in arrogance, above us. We must show them the way. Our people were not meant to live under the burning light of the sun, but to relish the twilight and bring about the eternal night.”

  The Dweller motioned, and a feminine figure strode forward, carrying a tray laden with goblets of silver and sapphire. She passed a cup to each of them, and they held them reverently. The Dweller took his cup, and the woman rejoined her brothers and sisters.

  The Dweller raised his goblet, and six others followed suit. “Tonight we reaffirm our dedication to the darkness and to be ever ready for the return of our masters.” He raised the goblet high, and the others followed suit. After a moment the Dweller brought the cup to his mouth, and the silver tentacles parted like liquid to reveal his lips. He took a deep swallow, and his fellows did the same. He turned towards the tentacled statue and poured the rest of the liquid into its cavernous stone mouth. The same woman that had distributed the goblets collected them, placing them aside. Then she rejoined her compatriots, standing rigid as stone.

  “Great masters, we await your return,” the Dweller said. He dropped to one knee in supplication, and behind him, the others knelt.

  Then a most unexpected thing happened. A slow, mocking clapping filled the chamber, accompanied by a sardonic, even pained laughter. The twin sounds shocked the robed cult leader as much as they did the shrouded man lurking in the shadows above. The Dweller stumbled to his feet and turned, a sputtering complaint dying behind his mas
k as he saw another hooded figure approach his cadre of followers. After a moment the Dweller regained some of his confidence.

  “Who are you that dares interrupt this holy ceremony?” the Dweller said, but the tremble in his voice betrayed his fear.

  “I am the bringer of truth. I am the doom of your masters made flesh,” the newcomer said in a voice that was both alien and familiar.

  The shrouded man eased back, all instincts telling him to run. The Dwellers in the Dark were fools playing at things they could not possibly comprehend, but this newcomer was truly dangerous. The shrouded man could feel it in every fiber of his being. Where the cultists were likely mere miscreants, fools with an axe to grind against authority, this newcomer possessed an aura of pure malice.

  With a herculean effort, the shrouded man remained still. Whoever this newcomer was he was the real danger. The Dweller, in his arrogance, still clung to his air of superiority. He made a brazen move forward, a despotic fool too tied up in his small ego to understand what he now faced. He ordered his followers to their feet. The six hooded forms did as commanded and flanked their master.

  “You are a fraud and a fool,” the newcomer said, and even from his high perch, the shrouded man could feel the otherworldly ice of the newcomer’s voice bite into the depths of his soul.

  Something is horribly wrong with this creature, the shrouded man thought.

  “By the power of the Old Ones, I command you to stop where you are,” the Dweller said. To everyone’s surprise, the newcomer did just that, stopping a half dozen feet from the Dweller. Arranged around him in a semi-circle were the other cultists.

  The shrouded man had to admit the Dweller’s misguided courage impressed him. He must be a true zealot, his twisted faith clouding his judgment. That courage would soon fail the Dweller as his own had begun to fail him.

  Emboldened by his superior numbers the Dweller’s voice rang forth with power and authority. “Seize the defiler,” the Dweller raged, pointing a long finger at the newcomer. The cultists moved quickly, rushing forward, a dozen hands clawing and grasping for their prey.

  The shrouded man could not see the Dweller’s face due to the nightmarish mask, but he could see the shock in the man’s body language as those dozen hands grasped him instead of the newcomer. The Dweller sputtered in fear, but only one word formed.

  “How?”

  The newcomer walked up to the Dweller and with a wave of his hand the Dweller’s mask turned to silver gray smoke and flowed away, taken by a nonexistent wind. The shrouded man could now see the Dweller’s face, but he did not know the man. Hardly surprising, there were thousands of people living in Sylvan Aenor.

  The newcomer moved closer to the cult leader and raised his head, giving the Dweller a glimpse of the face hidden in the shadows. The Dweller’s body began to spasm as he tried with every bit of his might to pull away, but the six pairs of hands that held him were like chains of iron.

  “I will show you the truth of the masters you serve.” The newcomer took the Dweller’s head in his hands, forcing his eyes to remain open. Static filled the air, and the shrouded man could feel the power of primal magic building.

  The Dweller’s opened his mouth to scream, his eyes widening in horror and madness, but no sound came out. It was as if what he saw was so terrible that it had robbed him of voice and breath alike.

  The shrouded man recoiled as a rush of oily darkness flush with madness pulsed around the room. Every instinct told him to run, but he held fast and watched as the newcomer traced a claw-like fingernail down the side of the Dweller’s face. Tears formed unbidden in the cult leader’s eyes, trailing rivulets down his suddenly ashen skin.

  “I must apologize for being rude,” the newcomer said. “You asked me a question, and I did not answer.” He turned from the Dweller, now facing towards the shrouded man. The silver flames back-lit the newcomer, cloaking his features. The shrouded man thanked the gods for small blessings and felt like a coward. After all, he was here to gather information, and what could be more important than identifying this daemon on two legs.

  “It was the wine,” the newcomer continued. “Why do you zealots always use wine in your ceremonies? It is so cliche. But I thank you for it. Your predictability was helpful. I had my servant spike your wine with a concoction of my own creation. It dulls your resistance to my abilities.” The newcomer took the chin of one of the other cultists in his hand as if he was telling the Dweller which of his people had betrayed him. “And makes you more pliable.”

  Behind the newcomer, the Dweller looked at his betrayer and then began to spasm. His mouth opened and closed in a panic like a man drowning. The newcomer turned back to the choking man and cocked his head to one side, a gesture of surprise and mild irritation.

  “Odd?” the newcomer said. “Are you trying to fight it?”

  The Dweller jerked violently and coughed. It was the first sound to come from the man’s mouth since his desperate question, and this time it came with a spray of crimson blood. The Dweller spasmed again as silent agony shook his body.

  The newcomer spread his hands apart in a casual gesture, and his new minions released the Dweller. His body fell in a heap as blood gushed from his mouth in silent spurts. After a few moments the twitching ceased. The newcomer nudged the corpse idly with his boot.

  “Well, that was unexpected,” the newcomer said and motioned to the two largest cultists. They dragged the corpse to the back of the chamber and dumped it in a heap. “It is time.” The cultists scattered like insects, disappearing through passageways and doors the shrouded man had not even seen until the cultists ran through them.

  Alone, the newcomer turned back towards the one-eyed visage of the arboleth. He held out a hand, and one of the braziers flew to him. After considering the flickering silver flames for a moment, he tossed the brazier at the tentacled statue. It exploded, turning the darkness into a raging flare of shimmering gray brightness. The newcomer walked up to the icon and traced a finger across the otherworldly beast’s eye. The flames did not seem to harm him.

  “I am your reckoning,” the newcomer said to the statue. “I will wipe your kind from all the Realms, and usher in a new era.” As if to certify his vow, the newcomer thrust his hands outward, and a wave of barely visible force erupted from them and slammed into the stone aberration, splitting its visage in two before it crashed to the ground in a heap of broken stone.

  Then the newcomer turned, pulled down his hood and stared directly at the shrouded man’s hiding spot. An itch grew at the back of the shrouded man’s head as oily tentacles of fear dredged through his mind. He tried to scream, but terror paralyzed him.

  For long moments the horror transfixed the shrouded man as the spiny tendrils of the dread abomination’s mind dug into him. Then he remembered who he was, a warrior of the El’Edryn, whose ancestors had fought the Dark Ascendency and pushed them from this realm. Through pure force of will, he tore his gaze from the dread creature, turned and ran.

  He bounced off walls and tripped over loose rocks, each time getting up again and running. His ears thundered with blood, and he feared his heart would burst, but then, ahead, he saw the blue glow of the moon, a harbinger of safety and he ran harder.

  He was so close to freedom, but then the chortles of the cultists' laughter flowed over him, and he knew he would not escape, knew the city of slumbering innocents would go unwarned.

  As his enemies closed in, a scream tore from his throat, one last, desperate warning for those who slumbered above.

  In the city above, the solitary figure of a woman stopped and listened, imagining she had heard something. After a moment, she shrugged her shoulders and continued her journey home. It was just the wind, she convinced herself.

  2

  The valley was wondrous. Verdant green grass flowed in every direction, spreading through a dozen varieties of trees that did not exist back on Earth. Some were silver-barked and tall, others were thick-trunked wonders whose umbrella of colorful le
aves blanketed the world in chromatic beauty. The chirps of birdsong flowed through the canopy.

  Gryph felt at peace and inhaled deeply. His time in the Barrow made him see how precious something as simple as the sounds of birds could be. The valley reminded him of the Swiss Alps, if the same mind who’d created the wondrous land of Oz had painted the Alps. After the horror of the Barrow King and the humbling shock of facing Aluran, it had been a welcome salve to Gryph’s mind and his soul.

  Wick and Tifala were inseparable, reminding Gryph of the reunion of a soldier and her husband after the war. As he had then Gryph smiled, his heart filling with both genuine happiness for his new friends and profound sadness at how alone he felt in this world, despite his new friends. Where are you Brynn?

  Gryph’s mind flashed back to his arrival in the Realms. He had come to find his sister, to save her from a tech billionaire turned despot. He had known next to nothing about MMORPG, gaming in general or the tropes of fantasy when he’d entered the game that had turned not be a game at all.

  Everything had gone to crap from the moment he’d landed face down in this odd universe of magic and possibility. He’d lost Lex, his only guide. He’d faced off against demons, lizards that walked and talked, and long dead men. He’d died not once, but twice. But I learned and leveled and made friends. And we made it here.

  Despite all odds, they’d escaped the Barrow and all lived to tell the tale. Even that damn imp Xeg had made it through. It was an outcome that defied logic, and a part of Gryph, who had never been a religious man, felt the hand of providence on him. As if sensing his mood, Ovyrm clapped a firm hand onto Gryph’s shoulder and squeezed. The look the men exchanged was one of relief and surprise.

  “I cannot believe that idiotic plan worked,” Gryph said.

  “The Realms are a strange place, my friend,” Ovyrm said. “And you made a good plan.”