Towering trouble a litrp.., p.128
Towering Trouble: A LitRPG Isekai, page 128
She opened fire, aiming for specific weak points indicated on their shared oracle interface. Limbs, sensors and joints were vulnerable, but their sturdy metal shells were quite resistant to small arms fire. Blinded and crippled by the sudden barrage, the robots ran into walls, and clattered to the floor, legs kicking in the air.
Approaching cautiously, Saskia’s team delivered the coup de grâce, firing at a certain spot in their exposed underbellies where their robo-brains were housed.
While this was happening, a human maintenance worker calmly went about his job on a nearby ladder. His head was up a ceiling duct, but there was no way any normal person in his position could’ve failed to notice the pitched battle being fought just metres away.
Further down the corridor, a woman emerged from a side room and strolled past without so much as a glance in their direction. She was dressed in colourful polypropylene and fleece gear often worn by mountaineers.
“I recognise her,” said Saskia. “She’s one of the climbers who disappeared a while ago.”
“You will be assimilated,” muttered Dave. “Resistance is futile.”
“If they’re mind-controlled, why aren’t they attacking us?” asked Alice.
“They might just be acting out whatever orders they were last given,” said Ivan.
“I can think of another reason,” said Saskia, looking at Ruhildi.
“Oh, you think whoever’s running this place knows we have a necromancer on our team,” said Ivan.
“Yup,” said Saskia. “If he sends living people after us, we can just kill them and assemble our own zombie army.”
“You know, we could just…” Ivan let the words trail off.
“No,” said Saskia. “Absolutely not. Whatever mind-control they’re under might not be permanent. I’m not gonna kill anyone I don’t have to. If the donkhole in charge of this place wants to ensure I don’t have to, I’m fine with that.”
They pressed further into the massive structure, stopping occasionally to fight off more robots, or take down sentry turrets. The further they went, the more people they encountered—all of them going about their tasks with calm detachment, seemingly oblivious to the gunfire erupting around them. As she moved, Saskia flitted through their heads, scoping out the interior of the structure.
It reminded her of nothing so much as…
“Spindle,” said Ruhildi, echoing her thoughts.
Saskia nodded. “It’s not exactly the same, but it has a similar layout.”
Like Spindle, this structure had a large hollow shaft up its centre, with elevators trundling up and down it. Unlike Spindle’s elevators, these ones weren’t rickety deathtraps, but sleek, modern-looking tubes.
Arriving at the nearest elevator, Saskia pressed the button, and surprisingly, the door just opened. They piled inside. Rinky-dink music began to play out of scratchy speakers as the capsule rose smoothly up the shaft.
“Are you frocking serious?” muttered Saskia.
“I don’t know,” said Alice. “It’s kind of catchy.”
The rest of them all groaned—except Ruhildi, who had a bemused smile on her face.
Only after they were halfway up did it occur to her that at this point, any sensible villain would cut the elevator cables, and that would be that. When the door finally opened, Saskia let out a relieved breath, and all but shoved everyone out into the room beyond.
They were fairly high up the structure now, but not at the top. Out a window, she could see a wide, flat platform, on which sat several helicopters.
“…the hell?” said Ivan, following her gaze out the window. “That looks exactly like…no. It can’t be.”
“Can’t be what?” said Saskia, knowing that whatever he said it couldn’t be, it undoubtedly was.
“That one looks identical to my dad’s private chopper,” said Ivan. “Even down to the dent below the windshield.”
“Your eyes do not deceive you, son,” said Victor Storozhenko, stepping into the room behind them.
“Dad?” said Ivan. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I could ask the same of you.” Viktor gazed down at the wreckage strewn across the mountainside. “You made quite a mess on your way in.”
“Don’t try to turn it back on me,” said Ivan. “You’d better have a damn good explanation for all the crazy shit going on here.”
“I do, but I’m not the one who will deliver that explanation,” said Viktor. “Come. Allow me to introduce you to our host.”
Saskia had a pretty good idea who that host would be. She’d dreamed about this moment; longed for it; dreaded it. Her heart was racing, and she knew she hyperventilating, but she couldn’t seem to stop. Her mum took hold of her hand. They were both trembling. She didn’t know who was trying to steady whom.
They followed Viktor up a winding ramp, and into a nightmare. The room they found themselves in wouldn’t have looked out of place in an H.R. Giger painting. There were tubes and cables and hissing pumps and pulsating flesh, intermingled in a way that screamed wrong on every level.
In the midst of it all, suspended in a forest of flesh and machines was a shrunken figure. Pale, veiny flesh pulled too tight over twisted bones. But those eyes. She knew those eyes.
“Welcome, my daughter,” said Calbert Bitterbee. His expression didn’t look welcoming. It looked predatory.
Book 4, Chapter 17: Abellion
From the back of his fire dracken, Anduis looked out across the sea of Grongarg to the distant island where his master, Okael had fought his mistress, Sarthea. The latter had slain the former, but in his death throes, Okael had burned a great wound into the arbor that even now spewed fire into the sky. It needed to be sealed, or the damage to this branch would be immeasurable.
If it were possible for Anduis to do this himself, he would—even at the cost of his own life. For what was one life compared to those of all the creatures, big and small, who dwelt here on Grongarg?
Numbers never lied. This was what Sarthea had failed to grasp when she cast him into the between. The lives of her night maidens were precious, yes, but were they more precious than the thousands he might save with the knowledge he gleaned from their sacrifice? It wasn’t up to Anduis—or Sarthea, or anyone else—to judge the worth of a single life. All that mattered was achieving the greatest gain at the lowest cost.
After Okael had freed him from his imprisonment in the between, Anduis had longed for nothing more than to continue his research. His new master would have happily allowed him to subject the skarakh of Thrikaxis to his dream manipulations. But Sarthea had cut off his magic, denying him his dreams. Anduis was, for all intents and purposes, completely powerless. Because of his condition, he lacked even the physical robustness of the average drengar.
So today he could do no more than watch as a calamity was unleashed upon the arbor, and Sarthea and Dougan struggled to undo the damage they’d caused. He watched as the storm dracken, Iscaragraithe, plunged into the boiling sea. He watched as Dougan faltered, and Sarthea left him at the base of the island. He watched as Sathea made her way up the mountainside, step by agonising step, and stood before the fire until her suit of lightforged argnum burnt away. He watched as she did…something to the molten arlium, making it solidify into a structure that very much resembled a crystal flower. He watched as the charred husk of his mistress fell to the ground, and lay still.
But she wasn’t dead.
Anduis knew this, because he felt no stirring of awakened magic. He was still bound to her. And as long as that were so, he would never dream again.
What was one life, compared to all those he might save…?
Anduis urged his dracken to land atop the newly-formed mountain, where it stood, mouth agape, awaiting his order to bathe his mistress in drackenfire. Almost, he gave the order. But something stayed his hand. A sudden realisation, like cold water across his face.
He may be bound to Sarthea, but she was also bound to him. She was a dreamer, as he was. And that made her especially susceptible to certain techniques he’d developed over the years. He’d used those techniques on her before, with some success. That, he suspected, was the true reason she’d been so quick to banish him. Without his magic, he couldn’t access those techniques, but severely weakened as she was…
Anduis lifted the charred husk, and bore her away.
It took many years of conditioning; remolding his own mind, and that of the vast creature that lurked beneath the surface of Sarthea’s dormant form. Her body slowly healed of its own accord, but with a combination of alchemy, runebinding and his own returning magic, Anduis was able to keep her mind from surfacing.
Now she lay cocooned in a shell of runeworked arlium, utterly at his mercy.
He had been right to keep her alive. By combining her ability to make vassals with his own dream manipulations, he’d been able to create the perfect tools to perform the great works he envisaged for this world. His Chosen were everything a vassal could be, and more. With their help, Anduis would become more powerful than Sarthea had ever been. His reach would extend across all the branches of Arbor Mundi, and he would bring about a new age of order and prosperity. The follies of the past would be forgotten, and everyone would celebrate his name.
A gentle chiming at the door pulled him from his reverie. It was Ragnold, delivering his evening meal. These days, Anduis often forgot to eat, but his old friend would never let him starve.
Anduis took the proffered tray. “Thank you, Ragnold.”
The words were unnecessary. Truth be told, there was little of Ragnold left in the pale, bald dwarrow who stood before him. A curious side-effect of his lingering presence in the minds of his Chosen was that their bodies began to exhibit some of his own physical characteristics. Over time, their minds became one with his as well. Now, he could feel Ragnold’s presence the same way he could feel his own hand. It was at once comforting and disconcerting. He missed his old friend. He missed the jokes, the laughter, the camaraderie—though he had done little to show his appreciation at the time.
But nothing could be gained without sacrifice. Anduis had sacrificed everything he had—everything he was—for this world. And now that he had the world within his grasp, he would let no-one take it from him.
Rising from her dream, Saskia took a moment to process what she’d just experienced. She’d long suspected that Anduis was Abellion, and this all but confirmed it. What she hadn’t understood—although maybe she should have—was how he’d become so powerful.
Well now she had her answer. Anduis had never stopped being Sarthea’s vassal. Sarthea was alive, and his power came from her. This was huge. If Saskia could find a way to wake Sarthea from her induced slumber, Abellion’s reign would be over. Sarthea would banish him to the between, or straight-up kill him. And all of his Chosen would become ordinary vassals.
The time for dallying about on these lower branches was over. It was time to get their butts to the Crown of the World and deal with Abellion once and for all.
There were only two people who might have other ideas. Sure enough, they didn’t hesitate to voice their thoughts.
“We must go to the Hall of Eternity immediately,” said Garrain.
Some of her frostling vassals had tracked Xonroth to his old lair. He hadn’t even made an effort to conceal himself, so she suspected he wanted her to follow him there.
“I agree we should go there—after we’ve taken care of Abellion in the Crown of the World. If Xonroth is in the Hall of Eternity, that means he’s not guarding Abellion. This may be our only chance. Once we neutralise the Arbordeus, the Primordial will no longer be Chosen. He’ll be much easier to deal with.”
“He’ll kill our nestling, Saskia,” said Nuille.
“He won’t,” said Saskia. “I know you must be beside yourselves with worry, but try to think about it rationally for a moment. If he wanted her dead, he could have destroyed the egg. He didn’t. He took it.”
She didn’t elaborate, but she had other reasons for believing Xonroth would spare the egg. The other Chosen she’d encountered had retained some of their goals and preference from their time as independent beings. Thiachrin had always been a loose cannon who couldn’t be trusted to make a cup of coffee without killing someone. Freygi had enjoyed killing elves before and after her assimilation. Xonroth, as far as she could tell, had wanted the baby eternal to be born and raised in the Hall of Eternity. There was no reason to suppose that goal would have changed so soon after he became Chosen, unless it directly conflicted with Abellion’s goals.
“Perhaps,” said Garrain. “But you don’t know that. And if he doesn’t kill her, he may do something worse. What if he made a Chosen out of her?”
“I…don’t think that’s possible,” said Saskia. “At this point, she’s too young to have a mind to corrupt. Anyhow, let’s hear what everyone else has to say. Whatever we decide, we will get your child back, don’t worry.” Or die trying, she added silently.
“I’m with Sashki,” said Ruhildi. “’Twould be foolish of us to go where the enemy wants us to go. The Primordial took the egg because he wants us to follow him to his lair. Where he is strongest.”
“Aye,” said Baldreg. “Why is this even a question? The tyrant on the amber throne has made a dire mistake in not keeping the Primordial close. We must seize the opportunity and make him pay for it.”
“I do wonder…” said Kveld.
They all turned to him.
Kveld coughed awkwardly. “I mean, why would Abellion do this? It makes no…”
Saskia frowned. That was a good question. Why would Abellion allow his Chosen and the dragons to hang around at the Hall of Eternity, when they could be guarding him? Unless…
“Do you think he’s laid another trap for us at the Crown of the World?” she said. “What if he wants us to make the obvious choice, and come straight to him? Or what if he’s not even there? He could be hiding among the Chosen in the Hall of Eternity.”
“Or,” said Garrain, “the Primordial, Xonroth, could be Abellion.”
Saskia shook her head vehemently. “No. Abellion is Sarthea’s old vassal, Anduis. I’m certain of it.”
She gave them a quick rundown on what she’d experienced in her latest dream.
Rover Dog nodded. “That explains much. And if Sarthea lives…”
“We might be able to wake her up,” said Saskia.
“If Xonroth has the magic of every worldseed, he would have the magic of dreams as well,” said Garrain. “Anything Anduis could do, he could do too. And more.”
“That may be true,” she said. “But then why would I have just dreamed of Anduis? Seems far more likely that it was Anduis who became Abellion, not Xonroth. Abellion assimilated the Primordial, just as he did to all the other Chosen. Don’t you agree?”
“I just don’t know,” admitted Garrain. “We can’t be certain of anything.”
“So we do the best with what we think we know,” she said. “This may be a trap, or there may be some other angle we haven’t thought of. In fact, it almost certainly is a trap of some sort. But even if it is, I don’t see how it would be to our advantage to go straight to the Hall of Eternity without at least investigating the Crown of the World first.”
This was met with a chorus of agreement—from everyone except the two parents-to-be.
Nuille let out a disgusted growl and stormed off. Shooting Saskia an apologetic look, Garrain hurried after her. Saskia didn’t eavesdrop on their conversation, but she could hear the sound of raised voices halfway across the camp.
When they finally returned, Garrain announced, “I don’t like this at all, and neither does she. But we will accept your decision if you promise to help us rescue our nestling as soon as we deal with Abellion.”
“Of course,” she said. If we survive.
Ages came and went. Empires rose and fell. His body slowly withered, while he dreamt of distant places and meandering lives.
In the early ages, he reshaped the world with a deft hand. His own people, the drengari, he moulded into a new species, who came to be known as the alvari. In time, they splintered into distinct subspecies, scattered across several branches. Slowly, his interest in them waned, and he began to take a less active hand in the affairs of his followers.
Most of the lives he observed were of little interest. Kings and bandits, farmers and thieves, warriors and slaves; they were all the same to him. Their lives would not disturb the balance he had so carefully cultivated. Anduis the dreamer had once been like them: inconsequential. He was Anduis no longer. He was Abellion the Arbordeus, the one true god of Arbor Mundi.
But there were some individuals to whom he paid extra attention. One of these was an upstart dwarrow named Calburn the Archurgist. Calburn was becoming a problem. He possessed knowledge and abilities Abellion had never beheld before. And because of his actions, the alvari of Ciendil had been subjugated, and the Ulugmiri Empire had risen to heights never before achieved. Their ships sailed the skies between branches. Their armies drove into lands that were not theirs to take.
And all the while, Arbor Mundi screamed in protest.
Abellion still occasionally felt the distant pains of his own decrepit body, but the pain of the world tree was a gnawing agony in comparison. The blood of Ulugmir was fuelling the fires of expansion, and the branch was freezing over as its air seeped into the void.
The dwarrows alone couldn’t account for such a rapid decline. Something else was draining Ulugmir dry. Something or someone.
When Abellion finally caught a glimpse of what Calburn was doing, he could scarcely believe what his dreams were showing him. Deep beneath the surface of Ulugmir, Calburn was drawing the branch’s life blood into himself. Volumes beyond comprehension—oceans of precious life-giving arlium—were flowing into him.
This proved beyond a shadow of a doubt his growing suspicion: Calburn was of the same ilk as the so-called old gods, Sarthea and Okael and Murgle. All of them had caused their share of strife. But none had been as destructive as this dwarrow demon.
