Dwellers of the Deep (Harbinger of Doom Volume 4)

by Thater, Glenn

  Duke Harringgold walked confidently down the corridor, Pipkorn at his side, surrounded by steel; every booted step echoed off the hall’s stark walls. “An entire regiment couldn’t pass here if these men denied them,” whispered Harringgold.

  “I don’t doubt that,” said Pipkorn eyeing the dangerous-looking men that escorted them. The Dramadeens, the king’s personal bodyguards, walked in front and behind, a dozen strong. Others lined the corridor before this door and that. They wore tabards inlaid with the Tenzivel coat-of-arms on a light-blue field, signifying their station, though beyond that, each was differently dressed and equipped. Each one, a named man of formidable history and reputation.

  At one time, the Myrdonian order, commonly called the royal knights, guarded these ways, as was their duty far back into antiquity. The king had long ago lost faith in that elder brotherhood, believing them pawns and stooges for Chancellor Barusa. Instead, these past ten years or more, the king expanded the Dramadeens from what had been an honor guard of a handful of men, to a formidable core of stalwart warriors drawn from all parts of the kingdom and parts foreign, each one hand-picked by Korvalan of Courwood, their commander.

  Each time Harringgold had audience with the king these last several years, he noted their numbers continued to swell. A fine strategy for without them, Harringgold knew the king would have long since been dead, his son, and nieces with him. As it was, they were virtual prisoners in the palace, leaving only rarely. Only Cartegian moved about reasonably freely — safe from most harm and intrigues due to his madness. He would never be allowed to assume the throne, so he was no threat — in fact, he often proved a useful tool in the Chancellor’s machinations.

  The Duke long sympathized with the king’s predicament, now more than ever. The attempted assassination of Lord Theta in Harringgold's own fortress by some of his own soldiers had changed everything. His family, his fortress, and his very life were much less secure than Harringgold had always assumed. He knew that now, without any doubt, and that made him anxious, wary, and angry. Above all, angry. How many spies did his household harbor? How many assassins? Who could be trusted amongst his guards, his servants, his staff? Gods, even amongst the family? And if he couldn't trust his own, he certainly couldn’t trust the king’s men. But he had no choice — to meet with the king he had to leave his guards and his weapons behind. That made him feel naked and vulnerable, not feelings he enjoyed.

  Pipkorn looked even more annoyed, for the guards made him submit to a search, doff his cloak, and answer brusque questions about its odd and varied contents. Threats to turn the guards to toads had no impact, instilling not the slightest hint of fear on their faces. In fact, thereafter, their searchings grew all the more diligent.

  Though the corridor seemed to extend forever, eventually they reached their destination. The court herald, a nasally-voiced dandy, and the golden-armored and caped Commander Korvalan waited at the double doors that led to the throne room. The herald bowed at their approach. Korvalan didn’t, but granted Harringgold a brief nod of respect before he pulled open the door without a word. Pipkorn received naught but a suspicious stare.

  As the great doors opened, they saw the king seated on the fabled granite throne, hands on armrests, glinting crown atop his head. Prince Cartegian sat a smaller chair alongside and popped up as the doors fully opened. The room was otherwise empty. The herald stepped up beside them as they paused at the threshold. He struck a small gong before announcing each name. “The honorable Lord Harper Harringgold, Arch-Duke of Lomion City, Lord of Dor Lomion, and distinguished member of the High Council of the Kingdom of Lomion. Master Pipkorn, past Grandmaster of the Tower of the Arcane, and distinguished wizard of long standing.” After a moment's pause, he whispered, “You may enter.” They stepped forward and heard the heavy doors close behind them. The herald and the Dramadeens remained outside.

  The relative unimpressiveness of the throne room never ceased to confound Harringgold. Considering the vast, ornate palace the royals lived in, you would expect the throne room to be monumental and majestic, with great, ornate pillars rising high to a domed ceiling adorned with some magnificent portrait of Odin floating about the heavens in his chariot. It was nothing like that. Perhaps thirty feet wide and twenty feet deep — large by any common standard but disappointing as the central seat of power of a country of millions. The marble floor tile from the King’s hall continued in and extended throughout. Two lines of slender columns interrupted the expanse, each boxed out with mahogany panels. The walls were white painted plaster above rich walnut wainscot. Beautiful, rich, just not monumental or majestic. Save for one exception, the granite throne itself. Carved of a single massive block of stone, a deep emerald green with streaks of black and white and midnight blue, polished smooth to a high glossy sheen. Monumental it was indeed, with a tall back, wide breadth, and thick armrests, inlaid and fluted in impressive detail without joint or seam in sight. What army of men or mighty magics pulled it to its place atop the king's dais was unknown; the throne's origin lost to antiquity, though records proved it predated the founding of Lomion City itself. Many were the stories that surrounded the throne, creating a mystique that surpassed that of the kingship itself. People held it in reverence, even loved it in a way, though few had ever seen it firsthand. It was Lomion's symbol and some say its heart. More than one tale said it granted wisdom to he who sat it. Some said it granted power, which was obvious enough, or that it granted wealth, equally so. But what begot what was less clear.

  As Harringgold and Pipkorn approached the king's dais, the ever-present smell of spilled beer reached them despite the masking scent of incense that burned in braziers hung here and there about the room. Cartegian scampered about like an ape, his tongue out, panting. Knuckles dragging, he charged the Duke, only stopping immediately before him. The Duke didn’t flinch — he’d seen these antics before.

  “Well now, what have we here, father?” said Cartegian. “A sorry lot of grubbers come calling, looking to fill their empty cups with our good wine or sample some smelly cheese, perhaps? What ho, but no, father, these aren’t common beggars at all — it’s old Mr. Boring himself and with him, Old Pointy Hat — where is your hat, by the way? Beware their speeches father, there’s little chance of waking from the deep slumber they’ll slip you into.”

  Harringgold ignored the prince, eyes affixed on the king. Pipkorn didn’t seem to notice Cartegian at all. Insulted by the slight, Cartegian scrunched up his face. “Ah, no matter, Old Pointy’s too scrawny a morsel, and Mr. Boring’s hide is too tough for my troll anyway. Marinated for a full week and boiled all day he would still not be tender enough to chew, even if I hadn’t pulled out his teeth. I have them on a chain beneath my tunic, you know,” he said, patting his chest. “I would show you if you were trustworthy, but you’re not, so I won’t. I’ll find a snack in the kitchens, instead. They’ve moldy cheese in a back cupboard that's quite tasty if you hold your nose and swallow it quick. It comes up even better sometimes. I sample it at will, as the fools leave it unattended.”

  “Cartegian,” said the king sharply. The prince scampered aside, bowed and waved as if departing, a pathetic smile plastered across his face. Spittle dripped from his lower lip.

  Tenzivel waved his visitors forward. He stood and stepped down from the dais. Harringgold was tall, but Tenzivel stood well taller. Lanky, pale of skin, bespeckled and lined. His height, distinguished gray hair, and booming, deep voice commanded any room he entered, though his voice was often slurred from excessive drink.

  The king and the duke shook hands and held each other’s gaze for a moment. Tenzivel shook Pipkorn's as well, though plain enough only out of courtesy. “What news?” he said, looking to Harringgold.

  “Weighty matters of state for your ears only,” said the Duke glaring meaningfully at Cartegian who squatted on the floor picking his nose.

  “Leave us,” said Tenzivel in a loud voice.

  “I’m headed to the kitchens for second breakfast,�
�� said Cartegian as he bounced up. He held his chin high, a somber expression on his face. “That’s why I’m leaving, and for no other reason.” He dragged his feet, his arms limp, and head downcast until he pushed open the great doors and stepped out. Immediately, he popped his head back in. “Father, I’ve important matters to discuss with you about my cat and my troll. Matters of great and grave urgency, not to be postponed.”

  “Later, my son. Off to breakfast you go.”

  “Very well, I’m off,” he said, a wild cast to his face.

  “As far as this gateway business,” said Harringgold, “we’ve done all we can until young Eotrus returns or sends word.”

  “Have you?” said Tenzivel. “You sent a boy and a foreign mercenary off to stop a Lord of Nifleheim — a creature purported to possess superhuman powers beyond our understanding. You gifted them a squadron of fresh faced recruits and a bag of goodies from Pipkorn’s hall of surplus magic. Then you set them adrift on a pirate ship, and that's the last we’ve heard of them. Not a word for weeks. Is that how you’ve handled it? Was that your best tactics, gentlemen? Bungled it, you did. Badly. To our common detriment.” The king took a long draught from his mug, not having offered any to his guests despite the tapped half-keg that sat beside the granite throne.

  Harringgold's face went red. “We weren’t sure that Theta’s warnings about Korrgonn held merit — we’re still not sure.”

  “The wizard was sure,” said Tenzivel eyeing Pipkorn. “He believes the foreigner’s words were true. If not, he would never have parted with his private stash.”

  “Merely some trifles to bolster their courage and raise their spirits,” said Pipkorn.

  “Humbug,” said Tenzivel as he slapped his hand against the throne's armrest. The king emptied his mug and refilled it from the keg. “Don’t lie to me, you sniveling turd. I’m still your king,” he said, his voice slightly slurred.

  “That goody bag held no jumping beans or marked cards, I’ll wager,” said Tenzivel. “Artifacts, talismans, or relics from some dark vault were they, for you turned them over in secret — to little boon for yourself as far as I can gather. No wizard would do so unless matters were truly grave.”

  “I had no idea your vision beyond this palace was so clear and expansive,” said Pipkorn sardonically, “and your insight, so sharp.”

  “There is much you do not know, wizard. That's the problem with your kind; you think you know it all. You don’t. You think yourselves the keepers of all knowledge, the custodians of all wisdom, to be parceled out in meager doses to those who kiss your behinds. Humbug, I say. Humbug.”

  Pipkorn glared at Tenzivel, his anger barely constrained. “I may not know everything, Tenzivel—”

  “—King Tenzivel,” boomed the king as he smacked his armrest again.

  The two glared at each other for a time. “I have news of the Eotrus expedition,” said Pipkorn.

  “Is that so?” said Tenzivel.

  “How have you come by this information?” said Harringgold.

  “I'm a wizard.”

  “Here we go again,” said the king. “I’ve little patience for such answers. Have they returned or not?”

  “Even now, they sail the Azure Sea,” said Pipkorn.

  “The Azure Sea?” said Tenzivel.

  “Dead gods, that far?” said Harringgold. “How do you know this?”

  “Via my command of magic, Duke. If you want more specificity than that, you will be disappointed, because I don’t care to reveal my methods.”

  “Did they catch The White Rose or are they still in pursuit?” said Harringgold. “What of Korrgonn?”

  “The Rose eludes them still. They sail in its wake to Jutenheim. Young Lord Eotrus has been gravely injured by a bounty hunter hired by the good chancellor. He may not live. Their pursuit has been foiled at every turn by matters mortal and more importantly, by those arcane. Someone is going to great pains to end their pursuit.”

  “Then Theta’s warnings of Korrgonn’s nature may indeed hold some truth,” said Harringgold.

  “Why Jutenheim?” said Tenzivel. “What is there of import?”

  “That's not yet clear. What is clear is that Theta will not break off his pursuit, not even unto the ends of Midgaard.”

  “Do you truly believe that Korrgonn seeks to open another gateway to Nifleheim as Theta claimed?” said Tenzivel.

  “I do.”

  “Then let’s thank the gods they’re as far away as they are.”

  “I fear it isn’t far enough,” said Pipkorn. “As grave as that threat is, there are other threats gathering of which we must speak, some closer to home.”

  “What next?” said Tenzivel. “Plague of toads? Rain of fire? Perhaps a gnome uprising,” he said. “There hasn’t been a good gnome uprising in these parts for centuries.”

  Pipkorn and the king stared at each other for some moments. “Thank you for the dramatic pause, wizard, you have our attention,” said Tenzivel. “Now spit it out.”

  “I sense a darkness from the east and from the south, gathering strength, biding its time. Rumors of trouble in the mountains trickle down from the north — though its nature is equally elusive.”

  “Do not speak in riddles, wizard,” said Tenzivel. “Straight talk is all I’ll suffer in this hall.”

  “I’ve laid it straight as I can,” said Pipkorn. “From the southeast I merely sense a disturbance — the nature of which I cannot yet discern. From the north, the hill people whisper of bestial calls in the night — calls not heard afore in this age. Some force is affecting the weave of magic. Something is out of balance. I can say no more.”

  “You’ve said nothing,” said Tenzivel. “Babble, bunk, and bother gibbers from your tongue. If you’ve nothing more sensible to say, be off with you. Go practice your card tricks and sharpen your hat for I’ve no more patience for you. Harringgold — why did you bring this fool before me?”

  “Master Pipkorn, don’t spin us a tale of trolls,” said the Duke. “That was fable when it fell from young Eotrus’ lips, and it’s more so now. He made it up entirely as you well know. He admitted as much to me.”

  “He didn’t pluck the idea from the ether,” said Pipkorn. “He merely embellished rumors already afoot.”

  “We can’t concern ourselves with rumor when true enemies lurk in the Council,” said Harringgold.

  “They don't just lurk, Harringgold,” said Tenzivel. “They control the Council.”

  “These tales I mentioned are more than rumor, I fear, or I would not have brought them up. Trolls do lurk in the depths of the mountains. Trolls and darker things too and they are stirring. Things not seen in generations. Perhaps they sense a gathering evil, or the opening of the gateway.”

  “Trolls are nothing but animals,” said Tenzivel. “If any even still exist. Now you attribute to them powers to sense things from afar? These antics do not impress me.”

  “Perhaps the reported calls are from some creature or creatures that escaped the Eotrus in the Vermion Forest,” said Harringgold. “Some things that crawled out of the gateway.”

  “Perhaps,” said Pipkorn.

  “If a threat looms in the north or the south, or any other direction, we must know its nature and prepare for it,” said Harringgold. “Master Pipkorn, you must reveal whatever else you know. This is no time for wizardly performances.”

  Pacing, Pipkorn considered for a moment. “The threat from the south is of a strange nature. I cannot define it for you; I cannot name it. All I can say is that it grows in power almost daily and its area of influence spreads. From the north, come the haunting calls in the night — whether troll, demon, hoax, or figment, I cannot say. Nor do I know if whatever it is could threaten the realm. I simply urge caution and diligence. Our borders must be monitored and protected. We must have time to react if the threat looms real.”

  “Your first sensible words,” said Tenzivel before taking a deep draught of his mug. “Prudence dictates we not wait to react.”


  “Do you suggest going on the offensive?” said Pipkorn.

  “A patrol of some strength at least is warranted,” said Harringgold. “Equipped with ravens for messaging.”

  “If we give credence to the wizard’s mumblings at all,” said Tenzivel.

  “And if the threat is real?” said Pipkorn.

  “Crush it before it gathers its strength,” said Harringgold. “Now we make progress, yet divert from purpose. We convened to discuss the Council, I thought.”

  “A threat is a threat whatever its origins,” said Tenzivel. “So long as we don't waste time or resources on rumor or figments.”

  “We cannot fight enemies on multiple fronts with the Counsel in disarray,” said Harringgold.

  “Sluug has stationed Rangers in Dor Eotrus,” said Tenzivel. “Send word for them to ride out and investigate these noises in the night, if they haven’t already.”

  “The men of Dor Eotrus will likely want little part in that, given their losses the last time,” said Pipkorn.

  “Sluug’s rangers will handle it without them if need be,” said Harringgold. “In fact, they may prefer it that way.”

  “And what of the South?” said Pipkorn.

  “Send ravens to Dover and the southern Dors,” said Tenzivel. “Tell them to send out patrols and to be vigilant.”

  “Do we tell the Council?” said Harringgold.

  “If brought to their attention now, they’ll think these matters some ruse and they’ll block us,” said Tenzivel.

  “So we move without them,” said Harringgold.

  “Such is the king’s prerogative,” said Tenzivel.

  “And what say you of the Council’s machinations?” said Pipkorn after Harringgold had recounted the events of the recent council session.