Patch 17 (Realm of Arkon) (30 page)

"As if you really don't know," grinning, Cymon fished out a bottle of Lakian brandy.

"Punishers sure are swimming in dough nowadays," the mage clicked his tongue. "By the way, why are you dressed in plate all of a sudden, like a statue in the lord's palace? Where is your signature gray jacket?"

"Tunic, not jacket," the tifling corrected his friend. "The master's orders. There are too few of us in the city—we lost three brothers just last week. The master must have thought we'd be better protected in plate."

Kert produced two glasses from somewhere and shoved one into Cymon's hands, who then poured the dark liquid into both. A pleasant aroma filled the air.

"Congrats on your promotion, buddy!" The mage clinked his glass with Cymon's, and they drank. "Fill 'em up right away before the drink airs out," said Kert, squinting blissfully.

The tifling poured another round, and they finally sat down at the table.

"Why did you drag me here?"

"Hart take me!" Kert smacked his forehead, nearly spilling the brandy from the glass in his other hand. "I almost forgot because of you. Master Varkas has decoded the runes on the artifact from the Zorn excavation site. Turns out it's another accumulator, and a powerful one at that. And filled to the brim with dark energy, which we're always short on! Everybody's in the testing hall now, getting ready to transfer the energy from the artifact into our own accumulator. The center will finally be able to run a whole lot of interesting studies!" Kert upended his glass and set it back on the table, then ran over to one of the metal cabinets and flung open its doors, revealing a screen that looked like a large oval mirror.

"This is the visor," the mage explained to Cymon when the latter walked over. "Literally devours energy, which is why it can only function without excessive losses near the main accumulator. We're going to calibrate it now."

"Won't you get chewed out by your superiors?" Cymon inquired. He'd heard of visors—devices that transmitted images over a distance—but he'd never seen them first-hand. It kind of resembled a magic eye, only much larger and causing far less disturbance.

"Ain't no one left to do the chewing out," Kert grunted, twisting and turning the myriad bolts and gears. "All the big bananas are with the main host. Master Varkas is in charge, and he's currently in the testing hall two floors down."

The visor's screen showed the image of a large semicircular space with a central platform and rows of tables branching outward. The transmission was from a back row, so the view wasn't great—only the central section was visible, where several demons in mantles of varying colors scurried to and fro. The number of spectators was hard to calculate, but the safe assumption would be thirty or fewer.

"Well?" Kert nodded at the screen.

"Reminds me of the circus," the punisher shrugged his shoulders. Then clarified in response to his friend's puzzled look, "the tribunes are similarly enclosed with a transparent shield."

"Right, same thing!" the mage said indignantly. "This shield is a thousand times stronger than in any circus! See the one in a blue mantle, to the right of the compensator?" Kert indicated one of the five mages setting up various equipment on the central platform. "That's Master Varkas. He's calibrating the main accumulator as we speak."

"So?" Cymon grunted.

"So?! The energy from the artifact will pass through four converters—the yellow crystals on the corner stands, and then—"

"How about another round?" the tifling interrupted his friend.

"You don't find this interesting?"

"Not really," Cymon admitted. "I cannot fathom what could be so fascinating about transferring energy from one accumulator to another. You're all mad here!" he shook his head. "Trading sleep for this madness!"

"Oh, what do you know! The paltry fourteen percent loss when transferring energy makes this method truly revolutionary!" Seeing his friend's ironic gaze, Kert gave a loud sigh and waved his hand. "Pour it! I can see I'm wasting my breath."

In the meantime, the mages in the testing hall had apparently completed their preparations and had dispersed to different corners. The one Kert had identified as Varkas held up his staff slowly, squeezing it with both hands, and shouted something. The visor didn't transmit sound, but it didn't need to—everything was clear enough. At his command, the pitch-black artifact—looking like the claw of some monstrous river crab hoisted on a small cubic altar—sprouted barely visible whitish lines that stretched toward the four crystals-converters on special stands, shaped like the main accumulator but at one third its size. The crystals were set at the top of the quadrant that was roughly ten feet wide, with the altar at the center, and the lines of power emanating from them interlocked at the dark body of the accumulator, which floated several feet above the altar.

"It's working," there were notes of awe in Kert's voice. "Varkas really is a genius. All right, let's get back to the table—we've got another two hours, at least," he nodded at the visor.

"Was Lita very upset?" asked the mage when they returned to their seats.

"Nah," Cymon smiled. "She's known you a long time."

"I really do feel bad," Kert said guiltily. "And I haven't seen my namesake in a month."

Suddenly the room shook. The multicolor indicators on the metal cabinets started blinking their alarm, and an ominous buzzing sounded from the accumulator's direction.

"What the..." Kert looked around alarmingly, and his eyes stopped on the visor. "Gods!" he exclaimed, rushing over to the screen, with the tifling following closely behind.

Something inconceivable was happening in the testing hall: in place of the construction erected by the mages now gaped the black mirror of a portal, out of which poured giant insect-like creatures resembling wingless flies the size of dogs. Wearing a shroud of grayish haze, the beasts dispersed quickly throughout the hall, leaving a trail of brown-green tracks. To the right of the portal, a dark disgusting mass rolled in a putrid pool, shuffling a dozen six-foot-long tentacles. The monster's eyes stared unblinkingly into the hall, its jaws moving slowly, masticating what was left of Master Varkas. The other participants of this experiment were lying nearby—still alive, but not for long by the look of things. Their bodies were decomposing in real time, twitching in the pool of that abominable liquid.

The protective canopy covering the central section of the hall had vanished, and all hell had broken loose in the tribunes: some of the mages were convulsing in agony, others were still fighting off the fiends, but most were already lifeless.

Out of the entire hall, only six could be seen working together. Having put up their shields, they were unleashing the full arsenal of their respective schools upon the gray beast.

"What the Hart is going on?!" Cymon pulled on the sleeve of his flabbergasted friend.

"Death," Kert whispered, his face ashen. "Death has come to Nittal."

"Snap out of it!" The tifling shook the mage roughly. "You're talking gibberish!"

"That is the Agent of Death, and its minions carrying the plague. There's nobody left in Nittal who can oppose the monster—all the powerful necromancers and healers have gone off with the legions. Varkas was the only one left who could... but..." Kert nodded at the screen.

The monster in the testing hall began to quake—hard enough that a gnawed-off arm stuck halfway out of its maw—then jumped back fifteen feet. A wave of rot spread from it in all directions, covering the hall with a brownish taint. One of the attacking mages' shield popped, and he crumpled to the floor. One of the corpses in the pool of ooze twitched, his ribcage parted and a bloody abomination rose from the remains—identical to those pouring out of the black portal.

"There must be something we can do" the punisher bellowed and shook his friend by the scruff of his shirt. "You're smart, god damnit, think of something!"

The demon's head dangled helplessly, and his eyes stopped on the main accumulator.

"Wait," Kert's hand pushed the tifling in the chest. "I know!" he shouted, his voice back to normal.

"Spit it out."

"We're already dead, you and I. But we can still save the city," the mage spoke quickly. He bolted to the front door and began opening it. "There's no way we're surviving this, anyway..."

"Cut to the point!" Cymon broke in, following right behind.

"I will blow up the accumulator and let the fire burn out the blight, but I will need about ten minutes. There's a box hanging on the wall in the first floor hallway—you passed it on the way here. Break the glass and turn the lever. In three minutes, the hallway will put up an invisible screen that the Agent of Death won't be able to pass through so easily." The short demon in a wrinkled brown mantle looked his friend in the eye. "Cymon, if even one of those beasts escapes, all of Nittal will turn into a necropolis by nightfall. With the damp weather, the plague will spread almost instantly. That's it," Kert gave the tifling a quick impulsive hug. "Farewell, my friend! Run!"

Cymon rushed out of the room and, unsheathing his swords and shifting into combat form on the go, zipped down the dark corridor. Out of the corner of his ear he heard the mithril door slam shut behind him. The tifling didn't give a damn about anyone—and especially not about himself—but up there in the sleeping city he had a wife and a young son. He could not afford to die without completing his task.

He was at the metal block in twenty seconds. The glass shattered from the strike with the butt end of his sword, and the tifling turned the sandpapery lever after the indicated arrow. There was a soft buzzing sound. Now all he had to do was hold the line for three minutes. Cymon moved another ten yards toward the entrance to the passageway, where the plague carriers were most likely to emerge, and froze, his form relaxed.

For about one minute nothing was happening, but then he heard scratching noises coming from the staircase leading down. The first two beasts, who were even more repulsive in person than on the screen, died instantly. Cymon shoved their corpses—chopped in half and oozing green goo—aside and to the wall, trying to conserve his breath. Three more carriers emerged from the stairs, scurrying, and then a few more. Cymon became a three-handed vortex of steel, with the mithril tip at the end of his tail striking down the plague spreaders with just as much precision as the blades in his hands. But the fiends poured forth faster than he could kill them, and there came a point when the tifling realized that in another twenty-thirty seconds the torrent would become too much, and one of the carriers would surely slip by him. The punisher howled with despair at the thought.

The help came unexpectedly. There was a shuffling of feet at his back, and suddenly a wall of fire went up before Cymon, burning alive the stream of monsters rushing him. The tifling turned around. He was struggling to breathe, having inhaled too many toxic fumes. Despite all his defenses, he didn't have long to live.

"Allet?" he wheezed.

The old gatekeeper had transformed. Maintaining the spell with arms raised to shoulder level, his eyes glaring bright yellow beneath the massive arcs of those bushy brows. In his combat form, the demon looked nothing like the old grouch Cymon used to know.

"Master Allet, if you will," the old gatekeeper hissed, coming up to the tifling. "This shield," he nodded at the box buzzing on the wall, "is not going to hold the Agent of Death," he stated grimly.

"Kert will blow up the accumulator soon, and the fire will burn out all this filth..." the tifling doubled over in a fit of coughing. Despite the draft coming in from the street, the stench in the hallway was unbearable.

"You and your friend Master Kert have done well," the old demon smiled weakly—he was using all his strength to keep up the spell. "Sure, the lord will need to rebuild half the palace, but it's a fair price to pay for saving the city."

"Master, but why are you—"

"I've got family up there, too. Three granddaughters..." A translucent screen went up with a swoosh behind them, blocking passage. "There we go," the old mage sighed wearily. "I'm happy to have met you and Master Kert. I'll hold out another three minutes or so. The rest is up to the two of you."

"Thank you, Allet," the tifling just remembered that he'd forgotten to thank the old demon...

When the wall of fire died down, and the old mage collapsed onto the tiles, having given his all to the cause, Cymon leaped on top of the heap of scorched corpses and bellowed his legion's war cry.

The tifling became death incarnate. His two swords and tail were pure lightning, slicing through the darkness and monsters' bodies as if through butter. His armor—buffed to the max with all resistances—endured their bites with ease, as he no longer needed to hold the line or preserve his strength. He began to feel pain somewhere on the outskirts of his consciousness, but he could not stop. He had to keep a step ahead lest it swept over him.

How long did he have left? The tifling dodged a plague carrier that had leaped at his chest, cutting down the fiend in midair. What if Kert were to fail? Cymon slipped on the tiles, but kept his balance. Three more beasts materialized before him. He chopped down twice and leaped to the side, whipping the third target with his edged mithril tip, knocking it down. A quick step forward and his blade pierced right through the disoriented foe.