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  Scourge

  Of

  Souls

  Book Four of the Realms

  by

  C.M. Carney

  Scourge of Souls - Book Four of The Realms by C.M. Carney

  www.cmcarneywrites.com

  © 2019 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 my Friends.

  Thank you for not being the Scourge.

  Prologue

  The words of rejection, of rebuke were barely out of Gryph’s mouth when the High God Aluran waved his hand, dismissing the player. Gryph blinked out of existence, banished back to whatever haven shielded him from the High God’s gaze.

  The pop of air rushing to fill the hole in space held all the potency of a bolt of the High God’s lightning. None of the other gods of the Pantheon spoke and few dared to even breathe as they silently begged the aether to turn their wrathful father’s gaze elsewhere.

  Several moments passed, tension hanging in the air like a storm about to break. A bank of dark clouds rolled in from the Shining Sea blocking the light of the sun and leached what little warmth still flowed through the gods’ bodies. The world itself seemed moved by the High God’s anger.

  A dozen pair of eyes followed the subtle rise and fall of the High God’s breath, each one thrummed with the possibility of imminent violence. None of them would say it, fewer would even let themselves think it, but each of them knew deep in their souls what drove his anger.

  The High God Aluran, Arche of the Pantheon, Prime Mover of the Realms, Father to All, was terrified.

  The other gods of the Pantheon watched as Aluran’s will slowly eased control back into his body. His breathing calmed, and he gazed down upon the city. The storm clouds retreated and the sun once again poked warm fingers down upon them all. Across the city, a million souls felt a pressure they could not understand release. Smiles returned to faces, laughter flowed from their mouths and life continued, as though the tension-filled pause had been but a figment.

  The common folk of Avernia were the lucky ones. They could return to their pleasant, normal lives. The Pantheon knew no such comforts. The High God had not dismissed them from the Quorum as was tradition. One and all, the Pantheon knew fear.

  As it should be, the High God thought. I can already hear your unspoken whispers, read the desire for challenge on your faces. This whelp godling Gryph has challenged me, made me look weak. I will show all of you true fear. I will show you the cost of betrayal.

  He sent a mental summons. A moment later the air of the Agora grew chill.

  “How may I serve you, Your Eminence?” came the resonant voice of the Hooded Man as he flowed from the shadows.

  The High God turned, purposely ignoring his Pantheon. His gaze fell upon the tall figure clad in a robe of dark muslin. The man, if one was generous with the term, wore a cavernous hood that shielded his eyes. His clasped hands lay forever unseen within the sleeves of his voluminous robe. There was something unnatural about the man.

  “What news of the Maker?”

  “I fear there has been no sign of him, Your Eminence.” The Hooded Man hesitated for the merest of moments, adding another layer to the theater of fear the High God was directing. “I have also been, as yet, unable to determine how he escaped. I offer my most humble apologies for my failure. If you wish to end my life, I will gladly submit to your justice.”

  Everyone knew the Hooded Man was the High God’s most loyal servant. The creature had served him longer than any of the Pantheon had been alive. If the High God was willing to punish the Hooded Man for failure, then none of them were safe from his wrath.

  The High God let the silence hang heavy for several long heartbeats, adding further apprehension to the moment. Finally he waved a hand almost casually.“ That will not be necessary, at this time.” He paused letting the last three words sink in. “We must assume that the Maker has completed his weapon?” Aluran turned and let his gaze flow across the lesser gods.

  “Yes, Your Eminence.”

  “What weapon?” Kharmaxun, the God of War, blurted, unable to hide his greed.

  The High God smiled to himself and turned on the brutish god. Of course the mention of a weapon draws your attention Kharmaxun. You are nothing if not predictable. Thank you for playing your role to perfection. His words descended on the war god like a hammer. “The player killing kind. The permanent player killing kind.”

  Unease surged through the Pantheon as the gods exchanged looks of panic. They were all natives of Earth, players who had gained entry to the Realms via the High God’s game. Because players could respawn, death was but a setback, a momentary blip in their otherwise immortal lives. Until now. The Maker’s weapon could fundamentally shift the balance of power on Korynn. Aluran would ensure that balance tipped in his favor.

  “If this man can kill players, he is a threat to us all,” Zeckoth, the God of Knowledge said.

  “Not all of us,” Aluran corrected, a finger raised in the air. “Never forget that you are players first and gods only by my consent.” He passed his eyes over the rest of the Pantheon. “Whereas I am a true God. The Maker’s weapon cannot harm me.”

  If only I knew that for sure.

  The High God turned and walked to the edge of the Agora, staring out over the Shining Sea. A moment later he turned back to the gods. “Do not fear my children. I will let no man, no mere mortal harm any of you. I will find this weapon and I will keep it safe.”

  The undercurrent of threat was obvious to them all and Aluran let the smallest of smiles curl the edges of his lips. Time for the final reveal. He turned to the Hooded Man.

  “Summon the Scourge,” Aluran said in a cold, calm voice. A wave of dread rippled through the Pantheon and a desperate gasp of shock squeaked from Qylena, the Goddess of Nature and Harvests. You are right to fear daughter.

  “As you command Your Eminence,” the Hooded Man said with a bow. A moment later a rush of air pulsed across the Agora drawing with it a palpable darkness. Silence hung heavy for mere moments before the sound of a cane tapping lightly on the stone tiles made all the gods flinch.

  Tap, tap step. Tap, tap, step. Tap, tap, step. A tall, lithe form stepped onto the balcony and walked to the High God and bowed. To the eye, it was just a man, but every one of the Pantheon knew it was something much more terrible.

  The man was rail thin. He wore a dark silver suit and a wide-brimmed circular hat. To all outward appearances, he looked to be a well-respected gentleman. He carried a black cane, which produced a melodic tapping with each of the man’s fluid motions.

  The brim of the man’s hat rose, exposing a pair of deep black eyes flecked with star-like points of silver. His face was lean and bore a healthy tan and had it not been for the alien-ness of his eyes he would have been considered handsome. He looked at the High God and bowed ever so slightly.

  “How may we serve you master?”

  “I have a task for you dread Scourge,” Aluran said in a firm, calm voice. “Find the Maker, add him to your quintessence and bring his weapon to me.”

  “As the High God commands.”

  “Before you go, I have a gift for you.”

  Without turning the Hooded Man called over his shoulder. “Bring her.”

  Two armed sentries, garbed in intricate silver plate mail strode into the room, dragging a small elf woman. Blood covered her face, and she was in obvious pain. The guards dropped her to the ground and left.

  The shaking woman raised her head and a beat
ific smile of utter joy crossed her face on seeing Aluran gazing down upon her. Her joy quickly faded to fear and regret as a cracked voice came from her parched throat.

  “Your Eminence, my God, I have failed you.”

  “Evidently so, Anveryn.” Aluran knelt and moved a strand of the woman’s hair from her eyes. He had sent her after Gryph’s NPC and what should have been a simple fetch and retrieve mission had turned to disaster. Anveryn was once his best agent. Now she was broken.

  Anveryn leaned into the High God’s hand, seeking solace. Tears flowed from the slight wood elf’s startling violet eyes. They were not tears brought on by fear though that emotion was surely present. They were tears of regret, of disappointment, tears of apology. “I am sorry. I … I will never fail you again.”

  “I know Anveryn.” He paused for a heartbeat. “Unfortunately you are unfit to continue in my service, but in my mercy I offer you a choice.” Aluran yanked his hand back, tearing away Anveryn’s last vestige of hope. He stood and without turning his gaze he spoke. “It is time for you to feed my Scourge.”

  Tears flowed down Anveryn’s face and her mouth opened to beg, but no words pushed past her anguish. Her eyes were wide, desperate and a wail of terror tore at her throat. Aluran turned his back on her and with that final dismissal, her mind fractured.

  The Scourge came closer. Tap, tap step. Tap, tap, step. Tap, tap, step.

  Tendrils of silver laced darkness seeped from inside the Scourge, leaching through the skin of his back. They stretched upwards from the man and solidified into four serpentine tentacles. Reptilian mouths opened with a hiss and every man and woman of the Pantheon shivered, for they all knew the Scourge was no singular man, but a creature that contained multitudes.

  Glints of silver energy flowed up and down the shadowy scales of the reptilian beasts and it gazed upon Anveryn through eyes that matched their master. “We offer you a choice. Continue to serve the High God as part of us or die and face the truth of your soul’s burden.”

  Anveryn blubbered, fear and anguish battling within her. She tried to speak, but her words failed her. Finally she pushed a final word through her lips. “… serve…”

  The Scourge smiled, and the serpents struck.

  Aluran turned to face the rest of the Pantheon, high on their thrones. It took a moment for the lesser gods to pull their gaze away from the horror of the Scourge, but the High God’s gaze bore all the gravity of a star, and soon all had turned to him.

  “Each one of you will leave here and scour your lands for this wretch who falsely claims the mantle of godhood. When you do, bring him to me, and earn my reward.” His gaze flowed over them, daring any to defy his commands. None did. With a casual wave of his hand, he dismissed all but one of the Pantheon, ending the Quorum.

  Only Ferrancia, the Messenger Goddess, remained. Her eyes went to the Scourge and a look of ill ease painted her face for the merest of moments before she composed herself. But the High God saw. “Be at ease daughter. I am not angry with you.” Her sigh of relief was palpable even among the gentle breeze and the sound of birds. “I wish to keep you close. It is likely that I will need you in the coming days.”

  “I am here to serve you in any way I can father,” she said walking up to the High God.

  “Good, you will take up residence in the Crag.”

  The remote location bewildered Ferrancia. The Crag was a last resort fortress built before the time of the Pantheon, hewn from a spire of bare rock. It looked down upon the city from high in the mountains. It was impossible to reach, accessible only through a heavily guarded mountain road or by a restricted port circle.

  “The Crag?” Ferrancia asked, her voice tinged with uncontrolled shock. “Are you expecting trouble? Surely this Gryph is but a mere annoyance.”

  “I always expect trouble, daughter.” The High God took the goddess’ face in a gentle hand and smiled down upon her. “Please, do as I ask. The reasons will become clear in the fullness of time.”

  Ferrancia bowed, an adroit enough politician to know when questions should go unasked. “Of course, father.” With that, she turned on her heels and walked off the balcony. The High God watched her leave, and a knot in his stomach released its tension.

  “Leave me and see to your duties,” the High God said, and both the Hooded Man and the Scourge bowed and departed.

  Aluran waited until he was alone before turning towards the bay. The sun glinted off the up and down motion of the waves, sparkling like diamonds. He gripped the railing with hands stronger than iron and forced the tension to drain from his shoulders. His ease did not last and his fear, his anger became strength. Beneath his hands, thin cracks began to spider through the marble of the railing. The cracks became fissures and the snap of breaking stone flowed over the balcony. Throughout the keep a rumble like the tremor of a distant earthquake caused servants and soldiers to glance around nervously. All felt the High God’s wrath.

  1

  Gryph tightened his grip on the ichor slathered dagger as he sawed into one of the Denizen of the Deep’s tentacles. He’d been near the bottom of the Deep Water for over an hour harvesting the epic creature’s corpse, and finally, he was nearing the end of the profitable, if disgusting, venture.

  He paused as a red warning blared in his vision and recast Halo of Air. The magical sphere of breathable air expanded from his head as it pushed the remnants of his previous casting into the dark water. He estimated that he was 700 feet beneath the surface but due to his Racial Ability Dark Vision, he saw as clearly as if he stood under a moonlit sky.

  He found it oddly peaceful under so much crushing water and thanked providence again for giving him the Ring of Minor Air Shield. Without it, this little dive would surely end with the bends and most likely a case of nitrogen narcosis with all its insanity-inducing glory.

  The thick skin of the beast’s tentacle parted and Gryph pushed his arm into the cut up to his elbow. The effort brought his face far too close to the thing’s body and despite the Halo of Air’s siphoning ability, he swore as the smell of week old seafood wafted over him. He grunted, whether in disgust or from the effort he was not sure. Finally, his fingers wrapped around his prize.

  Gryph pulled and felt the rubbery flesh tear and rend. He tugged and a small pop and a sickening wet slurp announced his success. He held a fist size sphere the color and shape of a pearl. It was the sixth one he’d cut from the monster and like the other five, it shimmered with an internal glow the color of a blue moon. His Identify talent triggered.

  You have Harvested Concentrated Water Elemental Remnant. (x6)

  This rare and valuable ingredient has many uses in both Alchemy and Crafting.

  You believe it could make a potion that will temporarily allow the drinker to transform their body into liquid water, increase the Skill Water Magic and other unidentified effects.

  You also sense that it could be used to craft an item that could increase the Skill Water Magic, Increase Resistance to Water Damage, Cause Water Damage and other unidentified effects.

  In the height of battle versus the Denizen of the Deep, he’d learned the beast originated from some crazed experiment that bonded a water elemental to an ordinary, if creepy, crustacean. Apparently, the animal’s brain had been far too small to contain the intellect of the elemental, so the leftover fragments of its consciousness were concentrated in pearl-like stones of pure elemental magic. The monster had been a mishmash hybrid, perpetually at war with itself. No wonder it was so angry. Gryph shivered at the thought of the original water animal isolating the elemental remnants and then growing the pearl around them like they were irritating grains of sand.

  What the hell is it with weirdos in the Realms experimenting on creatures to make monsters? Gryph thought. In his head he imagined Lex making some dumbass Frankenstein comment, but found he agreed with his missing friend’s imaginary jest. Maybe I do have nitrogen narcosis.

  A mental twinge drew his gaze up towards the distant light of the surface wh
ere a snakelike form shimmered towards him. He reached out with his thoughts and directed the length of Empyrean Spider Silk Rope to drag another of the net bags he’d brought with him, to the surface. The animated rope twined around the closest bag, one filled with a hundred pounds of the chitinous shell he’d hacked off the Denizen. He hoped to craft an amazing set of armor from the chiton. Once I learn how to craft that is. Gryph commanded the rope to take his prize to the surface.

  Since entering the Realms he had been under such constant threat, he’d not been able to learn or develop any of the numerous crafting skills that existed in the Realms. He knew enough about the power of proper armaments from his days back on Earth, and from the time he’d spent rebuilding Errat’s arachnid friends, to know crafting would be a permanent part of his life in the Realms. When, if, I get the time.

  That isn’t why you’re here, a part of his mind chirped in.

  Brynn, he thought and an odd assortment of contradictory feelings filled him. Brynn was his younger sister, a sister he’d pushed out of his life, perhaps when she’d needed him the most. A desperate message from her, begging for his help, was the reason he was in this strange world, the reason he’d come to the Realms. He closed his eyes and saw her face, heard the fear in her voice as he replayed her desperate call for help.

  “The Realms is not what we thought,” Brynn had said. “Alistair is not who he claims to be. My God, Finn, it’s bad. I need you to find me. Not here, but in the Realms. Saving my body in this world won’t do me any good if you cannot rescue my mind.”

  Alistair Bechard was the CEO of Sacrosanct Integrative Networks, an innovative virtual reality game company. He was also the High God Aluran, a man, who like Gryph, possessed a powerful artifact known as a Prime Godhead. It was a remnant left over from this universe’s formation, a mote of possibility that granted its bearer unlimited potential.