DWELLERS OF THE DEEP
GLENN G. THATER
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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DWELLERS OF THE DEEP
Copyright © 2011 by Glenn G. Thater.
All rights reserved.
Visit Glenn G. Thater's official website at:
http://www.glenngthater.com
Smashwords Edition: December 2011
BOOKS BY GLENN G. THATER
THE HARBINGER OF DOOM SAGA
THE GATEWAY
THE FALLEN ANGLE
KNIGHT ETERNAL
DWELLERS OF THE DEEP
Volume 5+ — Forthcoming
HARBINGER OF DOOM
(Combines The Gateway and The Fallen Angle into a single volume)
CONTENTS
Preface
Prologue
Gods of the Sword
The Return of Prior Finch
Three Minor Edicts
Flame and Parley
Mother Alder
Death Watch
Unwelcome Guests
The Pointmen
Seers and Stones
Dwellers of the Deep
King, Coup, and Conspiracy Too
Song of the Deep
Death or Taxes
Summoning
Dagon
Malvegil
Old Elvish Magic
Leviathan
Brigandir
Glossary
About the Author
Connect with me Online
Books by Glenn G. Thater
Glossary Links
Places: The Realms; Places Within the Kingdom of Lomion; Parts Foreign
People: High Council of Lomion; House Alder; House Eotrus; House Malvegil; The Lords of Nifleheim; The Crew of the Black Falcon; The Passengers of The Black Falcon; The Crew/Passengers of The Grey Talon; The Crew/Passengers of The White Rose; The Sithian Mercenary Company; Others of Note;
Things: Miscellany
PREFACE
Although much of the story presented in Knight Eternal (Volume three of the Harbinger of Doom Saga) was only recently discovered and translated, the climactic duel between Claradon Eotrus and the Wild Pict, Kaledon of the Gray Waste, has long been known to scholars via Leonardo DaVinci’s rather dry translation in Of Prehistory, his weighty and long out-of-print tome of ancient stories, myths, and legends. Down through the centuries the final line of Knight Eternal, “Then Claradon Eotrus fell,” haunted scholars, for the immediate events of the battle’s aftermath were never known, save for brief references in later tales.
I am pleased to report that recent translations of several newly discovered ancient manuscripts have brought to light another point of view of that fateful battle and the exciting events that followed. Drawing heavily on those translations, this fourth volume of the Harbinger of Doom Saga reveals the fate of the young Eotrus and details the continued saga of his band’s epic pursuit of Gallis Korrgonn, son of Azathoth.
Dwellers of the Deep transforms the Saga into truly epic fantasy, action-packed, yet cerebral, reflective, and philosophical, as go most Thetian tales. Dweller's source material consists of four distinct documents each born of a different civilization. The chapters centering on Theta’s group were translated from the Fifth and Sixth Scrolls of Cumbria, which despite the similarity of their names hail from different eras, though both were discovered in the same region of northwestern England. The Fifth Scroll is some twelve hundred years old and likely the product of a Northumbrian scholar, while the Sixth’s Celtic origins extend back more than two thousand years to the Brigantes tribe of pre-Roman times. The chapters centering on Korrgonn’s group are more familiar to Thetian scholars as several sources that contain variations of those tales have survived the centuries, the most complete found in the writings of Ptolemy. Dweller's chapters that center on the happenings in Lomion were unknown to modern scholars until the recent translation of the “first chamber” Grenoble Tablets, which predate the oldest Cumbrian scrolls by some twenty-five hundred years. Numerous other Grenoble Tablets are in translation and promise to add significantly to the breadth and depth of Thetian lore. Written in various regions and languages and over so wide a timespan yet telling portions of the same tale, these sources demonstrate the enduring and widespread popularity of the Thetian stories. One must conclude that in ancient days these tales were as widely told and as much beloved as any stories known today.
Besides continuing the pulse-pounding action that the Thetian Saga is known for, Dwellers of the Deep drops us into the intricate web of political intrigue that swirls about the Kingdom of Lomion. The alert reader will note curious parallels to modern political ideology and the timeless concerns that nations and peoples struggle with today. The truths and philosophies explored in the saga offer lessons seemingly lost on nation after nation, since they fail to learn from and inevitably repeat the errors chronicled in the historical record.
An interviewer recently almost stumped me when she asked how I would characterize the Thetian world of Midgaard in a single word or sentence. Fantastical? Wondrous? Mythical? Epic? Imaginative? Though it is all of those, and more, my answer was one that I’m proud of because it crystallizes the Angle Theta saga for me. “In Midgaard,” I said, “nothing is at it seems.”
Glenn G. Thater
New York, USA
DWELLERS OF THE DEEP
An Excerpt from The Saga of Angle Theta
Evil is as Evil Does
— Ob A. Faz III
PROLOGUE
Weighty deeds weighed heavy on the grand weave of magic that populated the ether, inducing sorcerous waves that erupted in all directions — waves that carried information of import, sometimes esoteric, but often seemingly mundane. From time to time, these chaotic impulses of ethereal knowledge could be detected, captured, and interpreted by honest Seers of uncommon skill and by certain eldritch devices. Grandmaster Pipkorn, archmage of Lomion, possessed two such devices — the fabled Rings of the Magi, two of the original twenty forged by Grandmaster Talidousen in ancient times, rare and venerable hangers-on from days long lost yet more enlightened. One Pipkorn bore on his right ring finger, the other, recently gifted to Par Tanch Trinagal, House Wizard for the Eotrus.
Talidousen rings, as they were sometimes called, did not give up their knowledge freely. They yielded only to those that held a measure of mastery over them. Such masters always paid a weighty price for the privilege, and no one, save Talidousen himself, ever held greater mastery over the rings than did Pipkorn, for he had plumbed their depths for longer years than even he remembered. And so the magical weave communed with Pipkorn, shared secrets seldom spoken, whispered of forces that disturbed and influenced it, and hinted at those rare beings that plucked the weave’s fabric and unlocked its mysteries, whether they dwelled in the Tower of the Arcane, or a far-off land across the sea, or some forsaken, subterranean depth never visited by man. This afforded Pipkorn knowledge that others could never possess, though the ring was ever fickle, stingy, and vague in its offerings, as
if it had a mind and purpose of its own. Nonetheless, with its knowledge came power, great power.
Pipkorn started when he felt the familiar tingle in his right ring finger that heralded some event of import; a reliable signal to perk up and pay heed or else risk regret. At such times, his Talidousen Ring would vibrate ever so slightly while at other more urgent times, it would oscillate so violently it emitted an audible buzzing and vibrated his arm to the elbow. When that happened, his finger, sometimes his entire hand, burned as if thrust into flame.
Thankfully, the latest vibrations were mild and caused but little discomfort. Too much danger was already afoot; Pipkorn had no interest in any of it boiling to a crisis just now, though he knew such was coming.
He polished the green gemstone with his fingers as he approached the ponderous marble font tucked in the alcove adjacent to his sleeping chamber. The font was the heaviest of the treasures he spirited from the Tower of the Arcane on the day of betrayal and secreted in this hidey-hole of exile — an ancient, foreboding stone structure that lacked the comforts and amenities of the Tower, but was functional, secure, and had thus far served him well.
Pipkorn was glad he had saved the font, despite the arduous efforts involved in secreting it and himself in this dark corner of the Southeast district of Lomion City, for the font had oft proved a useful tool over the years, and, strangely, he’d even grown rather fond of it. Years ago, after he had tired of polishing the silver font that then graced his laboratory, he commissioned a master stonemason out of Tarrows Hold, a rather tall dwarf with flaming red hair, arms as hard as tree trunks and near as thick, to carve the marble font for him to precise, though unnecessarily stringent specifications. An interesting character was the dwarf, a stonemason, soldier, brawler, adventurer, and artist, all rolled into one, though Pipkorn had no recollection of his name. The dwarf had done his work well, though he’d taken a full year in the effort. The font was cut in the shape of a large bowl; its interior carved along a precise curve, smooth and polished. How exactly he’d accomplished it remained a mystery. An ornate wood lid sat in a groove at the font’s rim and safeguarded its contents.
Pipkorn didn’t actually need the font. He could put the ring's gem up to his eye and see through it clear and crisp, though its view was narrow of field and lacked depth. The font provided an easier, more comfortable method for tapping the weave, and offered a much wider and more expansive view. Pipkorn had long ago resolved to employ a font whenever feasible and took to carrying a portable one on his travels, though none provided the clarity of the marble. In olden days, he filled it with clear water, until he discovered oil worked the better. He experimented with numerous oily concoctions, homemade, local, and exotic, both plain and scented of spirit and spice. For whatever reason, the pungent stuff worked best. His chosen brew was a clear, thick olive oil flavored of garlic and thyme, imported from Crondin, long considered the best on the continent. The oil made the image a bit clearer, the colors a bit deeper, brighter, and more lifelike, but it was sound that it most enhanced. It made voices as clear and loud as if one stood amidst the speakers. With the gem alone, they often sounded muffled and distant.
Though Pipkorn had worn the ring daily for years, no marks marred his finger when he pried it off, which was no easy task. The ring was snug, but by no means tight, yet it resisted removal until Pipkorn pulled, twisted, and turned it just so. Owing to some enchantment Pipkorn could not lift, a different combination of movements was required each time to get the ring off. This caused Pipkorn endless frustration because he had never deciphered the secret to predicting the next combination, and he had long ago given up trying. Finally, he got it off, but wondered what other secrets of old Talidousen’s ring still eluded him. He placed it gently into the font’s oil, near the center.
The ring floated, gemstone up, its glossy surface barely covered with the thinnest film of oil. Then the ring began to turn, to spin clockwise of its own accord, faster and faster until it hummed. The concentric ripples it created in the oil broke gently against the basin’s walls. Of a sudden, the oil’s surface grew indistinct. It blurred, then became opaque. When it suddenly clarified, Pipkorn gazed through a magical window to another place. Images appeared across the oil’s surface and sound issued from it. The ring had created a mystical connection to its twin borne on the finger of Par Tanch Trinagal. That connection secured, Pipkorn saw through Tanch’s eyes, heard with his ears, and to a limited extent, even knew his thoughts — all laid bare for Pipkorn’s perusal.
The air in the secret Temple of Hecate hung heavy and close and smelled of sweat and smoke. Who would have guessed that a grand hall of soaring ceiling, mahogany panels, and marbled floor that seated thousands hid below a dilapidated warehouse in the bowels of Southeast, the foulest district in the fair city of Lomion. Who would have guessed that untold thousands of Lomerians secretly worshipped the Chaos Lords of Nifleheim, praying to them as gods, and that those cultists had the resources to build such a place and the discipline to keep it secret. And keep it secret they must, for worship of the Chaos Lords had long been outlawed throughout the Kingdom of Lomion, owing to their adherents’ rumored penchant for human sacrifice and other foul practices.
Despite the ban, for years there had been rumors of chaos temples hidden somewhere in Lomion City. Most folks considered them tall tales, but Par Tanch knew better, for the wizards of the Tower of the Arcane whispered about them, and what tower wizards whispered of always held some truth. Such was the way of things.
Tanch envisioned the chaos temples as grimy hovels or dank dungeons manned by a handful of wretched lunatics, gibbering away, huddled in the dark, biting the heads from chickens. He never dreamed that the temple could be as this.
Beneath the massive, domed ceiling the faithful aligned shoulder to shoulder in innumerable rows; a sea of concealing cowls and blood-red robes. Thousands crowded the hall to hear Father Ginalli's booming sermon in worship of Azathoth, the one true god — long now absent from Midgaard, the world of man, long now residing in the outré realm of Nifleheim, only to return when man proved worthy, or so went one tale.
Ginalli, Azathoth’s high priest, stood at the lectern and read boldly from a thick, leather-bound tome of sacred scripture. Par Tanch didn't pay attention to the words; he didn't much care. He was never one for religion; if the black rites of those mad cultists could even be called religion. His back ached; his neck was stiff. He was tired and drained. He longed for the quiet comfort of his chambers at Dor Eotrus. That’s where he belonged, not in a den of madmen, and certainly not on some fool’s quest. He was no adventurer, no soldier, no war wizard. He was a simple man of simple needs and little ambition. He never wanted to be House Wizard for the Eotrus. It was a weighty mantle and a step in the spotlight that he had neither the nerves nor the stomach for. If Par Talbon and his apprentices hadn’t got themselves killed, he never would have been house wizard — he would have turned down the position, if somehow, it was ever offered, and it wouldn’t have been. It was Talbon’s fault he was in this mess. Damn him.
But after everything that happened, when Claradon asked him to take the position, how could he say no? They had been friends for years, since Claradon’s days at the Caradonian Chapterhouse in Lomion City. It was Claradon’s support alone that had persuaded Lord Aradon to take Tanch in after the Caradonians dismissed him. Without that opportunity, Tanch had no idea where he would have ended up — though wherever that was, it wouldn’t have been as good a life as he had in Dor Eotrus. He owed a debt to Claradon and his family that he could never repay. That’s why he was on this mission, to give back what little he could to the Eotrus for all they had done for him, though he was far out of his element. He yearned for their quest to come to a happy end and for things to return to normal, though he conceded they would never be normal again. They couldn’t be. Not after what they had been through. Not after the terrible losses they had borne.
As the service progressed, Ginalli's voice boomed louder and dee
per, though he could have jabbered about the weather for all Tanch knew, staring at his feet and willing the ordeal over. Then it happened. A group of burly cultists emerged from the wings carrying a squirming, rotund man to the altar. They tied him down.
The tip of Father Ginalli's golden staff flared bright red, almost afire, as he leveled accusations of dubious merit against the man — Mr. Miscellaneous Merchant from Who-Cares-Where.
Tanch glanced at Lord Angle Theta. While intently watching the sermon, the big foreign knight tightly gripped the misshapen ankh that hung from a cord about his neck. That strange token glowed dimly in his grasp. Tanch noticed Theta's lips moving, subtly, as if he whispered to himself, and knew at once what went on. Sorcery — secret and dark, no doubt. But to what end?
Ginalli's voice grew still louder and demanded attention, though it echoed strangely, as if it came from within Tanch’s head, instead of without. Tanch lost all interest in Theta's magic or mischief, whatever it was, and felt compelled to focus his full attention on Ginalli’s rant against the merchant; the priest’s voice shrill, his eyes — the wild eyes of the fanatic.
Tanch's vision blurred; his hearing dimmed. He floated as if in a dream. He looked to his comrades: young Lord Claradon Eotrus, stalwart and true; Ob the gnome, his gruff Castellan; and Theta’s servant, the enigmatic simpleton, Dolan Silk. Each wore vacant expressions and slowly rocked back and forth, their eyes glazed over and watery.
Behind Ginalli appeared two Lords of Chaos, the very same creatures that crept from the mystical gateway lately opened in the Vermion Forest. One was called Mortach, a giant, living skeleton; an undead horror out of hell, loathsome and malevolent. The other, Gallis Korrgonn, the abomination that possessed the remains of Gabriel Garn, beloved weapons master of House Eotrus. Even as Tanch watched, Korrgonn's eyes began to glow golden and bright, and two horns erupted from his forehead. Tanch froze, his breath caught in his throat, the hairs rose on the back of his neck.
Dwellers of the Deep (Harbinger of Doom Volume 4) Page 1
