Sovereign Rising (The Gods' Game, Volume III): A LitRPG novel Read online

  Unaware of his god’s musings, Meryl bowed his head in thought. “Then perhaps…” he said slowly, “we only give Xetil enough information to locate the elf.”

  Misteria studied her champion curiously. “What do you mean?”

  “If we let the goblin-god know of the agent’s companions, he should be able to figure out the rest.”

  “Perhaps…” said Misteria, pursing her lips. She closed her eyes and considered the ramifications. “Yes, that will work nicely. Well done, Meryl.”

  ✽✽✽

  Hamen was hungry.

  He always was these days. When was the last time he had a truly full belly? He couldn’t remember. What I wouldn’t do for some lizard steaks right now, or better yet, a tankard of dark ale, he thought dreamily.

  But the clan’s stores were nearly bare, and the trolls’ forays pressed the dwarves too hard for such niceties, even during the infrequent pauses between onslaughts.

  The ugly truth was that the clan had all but given up. After six hundred years of near constant and bitter fighting in the pocket of mountain fastness that the dwarves had carved out, the tide was finally turning. It seemed inevitable that Xetil’s forces would dig them out.

  Oh, it wouldn’t happen today, tomorrow, or even a year from now. The dwarves still had fight left in them. But the clan’s eventual defeat was certain. None of the dwarves doubted it.

  And I, Hamen Thornbear, get to preside over it all, he thought, clenching his hands bitterly beneath the table. The thane, his sire, was old, and soon the clan’s insurmountable problems would be Hamen’s to shoulder. Revered as his father was, he, like all those before him, had failed to secure the clan’s future. Hamen tugged unhappily at his beard. There must be a solution. There must.

  Even now, the council was meeting behind closed doors to search for a solution. Hamen was a member of the council himself, and rightfully he should have been in the council chamber with the others. But he didn’t have the heart to rehash the same old ideas again. It was the same debate over and over. Today was the seventh time in the last month—or was it the eighth time?—that the council had met to discuss the matter.

  “Let us in! We demand to see the thane!”

  Hamen lifted his head at the faint shouts emanating from beyond the anteroom. Who is that? he wondered irritably, but a moment later the shouting died down and he rested his head back onto the table, his mind involuntarily returning to the dilemma that plagued him nightly.

  Stay or go? he asked himself again. And if they went, where would they go? Even if the dwarves escaped the encircling trolls, there was nowhere for them to flee to. The clan was homeless.

  Personally, Hamen was in favour of going. Anything but staying and enduring a slow, painful death. If the choice had been Hamen’s, he would have led the clan in one last glorious battle to the death. But the choice wasn’t Hamen’s. Not yet. All the elders on the council, including his father, advised caution. Hamen thought they were simply afraid, grown too used to huddling in these benighted caves.

  “You will let me in, you thrice-cursed fool! I must see the thane!” The shouts came again, louder and more desperate this time.

  Hamen sighed. I should see to that. Technically he was standing—well, sitting—guard on the council. He pushed his armoured bulk to his feet. At his movement, the twins’ snores stopped and they lifted their heads to look blearily at him.

  “Let’s go see what all that is about, shall we?” he said.

  Borin and Benin snorted dismissively. “Do we have to?” asked Borin, his scarlet, bushy eyebrows drawing down.

  “Well, we are on guard,” said Hamen.

  Benin grunted, but heaved himself to his feet. Armoured in darksteel that had been repaired many times over, he was the largest of the three dwarven warriors. The trio picked up their weapons, darksteel forged hammers in a similarly sad state to their armour. Looking over his companions, Hamen once again lamented the clan’s lost riches.

  Nearly everyone in the clan was garbed as the three. The priceless adamantine and mithril arms that they had carried with them into exile were all gone now, lost or destroyed. The surrounding mountains were minerally poor and without ore the dwarves had not been able to repair their failing arms and armour.

  “What’s the racket about, do you think?” asked Benin.

  Hamen rolled his eyes. “How would I know? Now get your arse moving and let’s go find out.”

  Benin merely grunted in response. The twins were well used to Hamen’s sometimes sharp manner. The three had been friends since forever. They were Hamen’s boon companions, part of his personal retinue but really more family than anything else. Some of the very few that I have remaining, he thought sadly.

  The trio reached the open door and stopped in shock. The thane’s guard—his actual guard—all six of them, were struggling to hold back two dwarves, one old and fat, the other young and barely bearded.

  “Sergeant!” thundered Hamen. “What is going on here?”

  The tableau of eight froze momentarily. The sergeant extricated himself and rushed forward to explain. “Lord, these two demanded to see the thane. Even after we told them that with the council in session it was impossible, they kept insisting. We refused them entry.” He paused. “Then they attacked us.”

  “What?” laughed Borin. “Those two? All by themselves, unarmed and unarmoured?”

  Hamen glanced at the dwarves in question. Borin was right. The two were unarmed, which was nearly unheard of in this day and age. Then he recognised the older one. Thoril, that was his name. The head of the defunct enchanter’s guild.

  He began to turn away in disgust, but he was too late. The old enchanter had recognised him. “Young lord!” he shouted. “Young lord, you must hear me. I bring momentous news!”

  Hamen sighed and turned back. “Yes, what is it this time?”

  Now that he had Hamen’s attention, the old codger turned coy. His gaze shifted sideways to the guards, who still held him fast. “Perhaps if we could speak privately, my lord? Your father might not want this news spread about.”

  Hamen scowled. He was wasting time humouring the senile old goat. He stomped away.

  “The golems are awake,” shouted Thoril.

  It took all of two steps before the old dwarf’s words sank in. Then Hamen stopped cold.

  ✽✽✽

  Dhoven hurried nervously after the young thane and his men. This was the most excitement he had ever experienced in his young life. Not even pausing at the barred doors of the council chamber, Hamen kicked them open and strode in with Thoril and Dhoven in tow.

  Dhoven glanced at his master. He appeared undaunted by his earlier rough handling. Smoothing down his beard and straightening out his clothes, Thoril stepped regally behind the thane’s heir.

  His master looked every inch the way Dhoven always imagined the enchanters of old to be. Dhoven was pleased for him. The golems’ activation had restored the old dwarf’s sense of purpose and pride in his craft.

  The six dwarves seated at the long table rose to their feet at the interruption. In a confusing chorus, they demanded an explanation for the intrusion. Hamen tried to shout them to silence without success.

  “The golems have awakened,” boomed Thoril.

  Stark silence fell over the room.

  “This is no time for pranks, Thoril,” said the ancient dwarf at the head of the table. He was nearly as old as Thoril and permanently hunched over from a lifetime of wearing armour.

  “This is no joke, my thane. The golems of the enchanter’s guild have been brought to life. Even now, Durn Duruhl may have been reclaimed. We can finally return home, my thane.”

  “How?” demanded a scarred elder.

  Thoril shook his head. “That I do not know.”

  With a heavy sigh, the thane retook his seat. “Then how can we believe you, Thoril?”

  Before the enchanter could answer, another elder intervened. “Hamen, I am disappointed in you. You disturbed our council fo
r this nonsense? Take this madman away, and make sure no whisper of his lies infects the people.”

  Dhoven’s mouth dropped open. How could these fools dismiss his master’s claims so easily? Surprising even himself, he blurted out, “It’s true! Show them the key, master!”

  Thoril glanced at his indignant apprentice, a merry twinkle in his eyes. “Thank you, Dhoven. I was just about to,” he murmured, pulling out the pendant from where it had been resting inside his clothes. It still burned with a pure blue light.

  The clan elders were transfixed by the sight. “This,” said Thoril, holding the pendant in his hand, “is the symbol of my office, that of the grandmaster of the Durn Duruhl’s enchanters’ guild, handed down for thousands of years in an unbroken chain from grandmaster to grandmaster. It is keyed to the guild’s most potent weapons, our golems. Its light now can mean only one thing: the golems have been activated.”

  The thane’s eyes jumped from the pendant to the master enchanter’s face. “You are certain of this? There can be no mistake?”

  “I am,” replied Thoril simply.

  “And how would such a feat have been accomplished?” asked Hamen, making little effort to mask the scepticism in his voice.

  Thoril raised the pendant again. “The golems were sealed in the master armoury. Only another pendant imbued with the access key could have unlocked the armoury.’’

  There was another possibility, Dhoven knew. Apprentice and master had discussed it before heading to see the thane, but Thoril had forbidden him from making any mention of it. The fact that Thoril did not speak of it here, Dhoven took to mean that not even the elders were to be privy to the other bleaker possibilities.

  The dwarves needed hope, his master had said, and if they were told the whole truth, the enchanters would destroy what little faith the dwarves had remaining. They would find out the truth soon enough anyway.

  The thane looked long and hard at Thoril before glancing at his son, who gave an imperceptible nod. “Then our decision is made for us,” he said. “Our exile is ended. We return—all of us—to Durn Duruhl.”

  ✽✽✽

  Xetil stared out the window of his Wazrak temple-tower. Despite the lateness of the hour, the camp below was a hive of activity. Goblinoids drank and fought with abandon—there being little in the way of enforcement in the tented city.

  Xetil, though, saw none of the chaos. Rage clouded his vision as he fumed over the events of the recent god council. Damn Kharmadon! he thought. Why did that ox even bother calling us to session?

  The meeting had been a near complete waste. Xetil spat in disgust. His fellow gods had spent the time sniping at each other while the free agent slipped through their collective fingers. The fools!

  Though the council had revealed some surprising nuggets of information. Iyra’s people—curse her!—were in Crotana, searching for the free agent. And Misteria surely had a hand in matters as well, he realised. There was no way the goddess of magic could have known what she had divulged during the meeting, not without her own sources of information in Crotana.

  Xetil scowled. He had to get hold of the player before either goddess did. Enough of this inaction, thought Xetil irritably. It was time he took matters in his own hands.

  Stomping back to his throne, he opened his mouth to summon his commanders when a whisper-thin thread of essence reached out to him. He stopped short. A message.

  Xetil, I have information concerning the free agent that you may find of use. If you’re willing to trade for it, meet me at Godshome. I await your reply,

  Misteria.

  He frowned as he digested the words. What else does Misteria know? He had a mind to ignore her request, especially after her dastardly performance in the council. She had made him out to be a fool.

  But he wanted the free agent too badly to ignore the bait she was unashamedly dangling in front of him. What game does she play at? he wondered. She would not be offering him information unless she stood to gain by doing so. Damn her.

  Though he knew it would cost him, he accepted her request with a quicksilver essence dart of his own. Then, letting his physical form dissipate, he rode the ether winds back to Godshome to await her arrival.

  Game Data

  As of the end of Book 2.

  Deepholm’s Profile (Condensed)

  Settlement name: Deepholm (capital). Type: Fort. Rank: Outpost.

  Sovereign domain: Labyrinth Deeps.

  Population: 2 (2 essence constructs).

  Current effects: Hidden veil.

  Essence structures: Essence lighting system, secret door, essence chamber.

  Mundane structures: Stone doors x 6, primary guardroom x 2, secondary guardroom x 2.

  Deepholm Construction Status

  Date: 08 Octu 2603 AB

  Progress: 18% (2 of 11 items completed).

  Build queue (cost, remaining)

  World portal chamber: Marble, 1 day.

  World portal: 10,000 EC, 2 days.

  Central guardroom: Marble, 7 days.

  Main barracks: Marble, 3 days.

  Final spoke (modifications): Marble, 2 days.

  Mine guardroom: Marble, 3 days.

  Mines: Marble, 21 days.

  Third spoke: Marble, 7 days.

  Craft halls: Marble, 14 days.

  Kyran’s Quest Log (Open Quests)

  Quest 1: The journey to becoming great (3).

  Quest 2: Escape!

  Quest 3: Be not a pawn.

  Quest 4: Find Eld.

  Quest 5: Free the undead.

  Quest 6: Deliver the lockbox.

  Quest 9: Restore the enchanters.

  Kyran’s Profile (Condensed)

  Name: Kyran Seversan. Race: Elf.

  Player type: Advanced player, free agent.

  Combat level: 20. Civilian level: 19. Health: 200/200.

  Stamina: 500/500. Will: 1020/1020. Essence: 1200/1200.

  Attacks: 21.3 (slash), 40.8 (psi), 43.4 (fire).

  Defences: 24.6 (physical), 20 (psi), 20 (spell).

  Skills (33 combat and 1 civilian SP available)

  Beast bonding (43.2), body control (20.4), light armour (14.4), psionics (34.7), telekinesis (26.5), telepathy (34.7), air magic (35.7), earth magic (43.4), fire magic (43.4), supportive magic (30.6), spellcasting (43.4), water magic (40.8), longsword (6.4).

  Commander (13.7), governor (0), mage lord (45.6), scrying (13.7), travelling (13.7), nature lore (22.8), feudal lord (0).

  Vassals: 2 of 14.

  Combat abilities (7 AP available)

  Beast bond, rank I: Calm beast, beast bond, extend bond, enrage beast.

  Body control, rank I: Mind-over-matter, boost speed.

  Telepathy, rank I: Mind shock, confusion.

  Telekinesis, rank I: Teleport (self), hold, teleport (object).

  Air magic, rank I: Blend, truesight, shocking hands.

  Fire magic, rank I: Flaming hands, fire dart, fire shield.

  Water magic, rank I: Water armour, slippery ice, ice wall, freezing hands.

  Earth magic, rank I: Barkskin, grasping roots, earth tremor, poison ward.

  Supportive magic, rank I: Restore health (self), restore health (others).

  Civilian abilities (6 AP available)

  Travelling, rank I: Show portals, travel (self).

  Scrying, rank I: Show hostiles, basic scrying, detect scrying.

  Nature lore, rank I: Show plants, gather plants.

  Commander, rank I: Inspiring, shared sight.

  Mage lord, rank I: Channel essence, channel novice spells.

  Equipped items

  Damaged set of chitin armour (15 base armour).

  Novice’s training sword (15-20 base slash damage).

  Bone shaman necklace (+2% earth magic).

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1

  08 Octu 2603 AB

  There are three planes of existence, one for each aspect of life: spirit, mind, and body. The spirit plane, usually referred to as the ether, is home
to gods, demons, and other beings of pure spirit.

  The physical plane, commonly termed the ‘world,’ is where mortals, and all beings possessed of body, reside. It is the connective tissue that binds all three planes together.

  The mindscape is the home of consciousness—all consciousness, mortal and immortal. It is by far the most nebulous plane and has no physical dimension. Bridges between consciousnesses are created through connections in either the realm of spirit or body. —Johlya Seerixa, naturalist.

  Kyran limped across the bridge.

  A wondrous construct in itself, the causeway arced upwards from the dwarven city, many hundreds of metres below the surface, to the south gate cut in the lower slopes of the Skarral range. Though it was carved from solid rock and supported by numerous stone pillars, the causeway appeared delicate in the immensity of the space it bridged, seeming to drift unmoored in the blackness of the cavern.

  Kyran stared at the deceptively gentle slope of the bridge. Damn, I still got a long way to go. His party waited for him on the other side. But in spite of his urgent desire to rejoin them, a steady limp up the bridge was the best he could manage.

  Halfway across the bridge, Kyran paused to rest. Why does it feel like I’m scaling a mountain? He chuckled, the sound more a hoarse croak than true laughter. In a very real sense, he was climbing the mountain, just not from the outside.

  Out of morbid curiosity, he limped to a side of the bridge and peered over the short railing. In the depths below was a fast-flowing underground river. Nothing like the raging torrent he had fallen into during his first days in this subterranean world, but still one whose depths he did not want to plumb. He shuddered and backed away to the bridge’s centre. I’m glad to be nearly done with this underground world.

  Behind him, Durn Duruhl was quiet, the sounds of the battle raging within the city’s centre not reaching this far out. Idly, he wondered how the golems were faring, then realised the information was close to hand. “Durn, can you hear me?” he asked through the bond connecting him to the city’s settlement guardian as he resumed walking.