“It’s clear enough that Kroth’s appointment to High Magister strengthens the League’s standing,” said Tenzivel, “since he has long been rumored a member of their cabal. Three or four more such appointments would effectively secure the League’s control over the Tribunal.”
“To what end?” said Pipkorn.
“The primary function of the Tribunal, as you well know, is to assure that the Articles of the Republic are strictly adhered to, by striking down any edicts that contradict them. Ergo, by controlling the Tribunal, you can enact whatever laws you wish with impunity.”
“That would be treason,” said Harringgold.
“Aye,” said Tenzivel. “But once they control the Tribunal, the republic will cease to exist. A despot will rise from the ashes. Barusa perhaps, or the Vizier, or some other, who knows. Lomion has stood a shining beacon in the world for a thousand years. Never yielding, never falling. And now, what could not be sundered from without, these bastards corrupt from within.”
“Can their lust for power be so great?” said Harringgold.
“Envy and jealousy lie at the heart of this,” said Tenzivel, “for within them reside the roots of evil. Power is merely an instrument used to acquire what they want most, and to deny others those same things. The republic must be safeguarded against this at all costs.”
“Yet we must act within the law,” said Harringgold, “or we would become as bad as they.”
“And if they vote down the Articles of the Republic as readily as they cast aside all reason at the last council session?” said Tenzivel.
“We work within the system and turn them back,” said Harringgold.
“The only turning you will do will be in the grave, for you’ll be dead, as will we all — unless the wizard escapes through some hidey-hole he conjures and slithers into. There’s no coming back from where we’re headed. If we fail, the only end will be a slow, simmering implosion of the realm over Odin knows how many years, unless outside forces destroy us first. Dictatorships and tyrants cannot stand forever, but they can hold out all too long, leaving much suffering in their wake. We can’t allow that to happen to Lomion.”
“We cannot halt or turn the vote in the High Council,” said Harringgold. “That much was made clear in the last session.”
“The Council of Lords is still in play,” said Pipkorn. “The Lords can vote to block most any measure the High Council enacts, and they still control much of the wealth and military power of the realm.”
“Someone must plead our case, lay it all before them,” said Harringgold.
“Who shall have this burden?” said Pipkorn. “We must think carefully on this, my Lords, for the fate of the realm may well depend on our choice,” he said, pacing. “Obviously, he must be a skilled orator, but also, he must not be a known enemy of the Chancellor or the Vizier, or that fact will tarnish his credibility and some who might otherwise agree with his points, may not even listen to them. That eliminates you, dear Duke, and me as well. He must also be a man of charisma, presence, and strength. A man known to the Lords. A man respected. A man who commands a room.” Pipkorn looked to Tenzivel.
“It must be you, my Lord,” said Harringgold.
Tenzivel shook his head. “It should be me, of course, but it cannot be. Another must stand in my stead, for if I appear before the Lords, the League will do all in its power to disgrace me, to discredit my words, and ultimately, to kill me. They have already made attempts.”
“Attempts?” said Harringgold. “More than one?”
“More than a few, but my security is quite competent.”
Harringgold looked shocked. “I’ve heard nothing of this. What has happened?”
“Recently?” said Pipkorn, looking as surprised as Harringgold.
“Last week my food was poisoned; that’s happened twice before. A fortnight ago an assassin was caught climbing the outer wall. Two months ago, four foreigners made it into the corridor leading to this very chamber before my men cut them down. There have been other attempts as well. I’ve chosen to keep these matters quiet.”
Pipkorn continued his pacing, seemingly deep in thought.
“If it were only my life at risk, I would not hesitate,” said Tenzivel. “But it is Lomion's survival at stake. They will have plans in place to discredit me, pushing aside anything I say, if even I’m able to speak at all. We must put forward the right man, but a man unexpected.”
There was a brief pause while Tenzivel and Harringgold thought and Pipkorn paced.
“Torbin Malvegil,” said Harringgold. “He could be our voice. He's rarely seen in court, but he’s well known and respected amongst the Lords, and he commands a room as well as any.”
Tenzivel nodded; a hint of a smile on his face. “I had Malvegil in mind as well. I can think of no one better suited to the task.”
“He may not come,” said Harringgold.
“Convince him. The realm needs him. He must answer his King’s call. Oaths have been sworn – and duty bound. Call him in my name and he must come.”
“And if we fail to persuade the Lords?” said Harringgold.
“Then the Articles will be thrown down and replaced by writs less worthy. Writs that will remove our freedoms in the name of freedom.”
“And if that happens?” said Harringgold. “Then what?”
“Then we must kill them all,” said Tenzivel.
Harringgold’s mouth dropped open, and his face went white.
Pipkorn halted his pacing and turned back toward the others. “Bold words from the King that hides in his palace.”
“Do not presume to know my mind, wizard.”
“Do not mistake me, Tenzivel,” said Pipkorn. “Your words have wisdom to them, but they are shortsighted. That shortsightedness may bring us to ruin unless you see the larger picture.”
“What babble is this?” said Tenzivel, his face scrunched up.
“Until now,” said Pipkorn, “you've failed to see that it’s part of the League’s plan to force your hand. They want you to move against them. They will call you dangerous and stupid and all those that follow you, the stupider. They will name you malcontents and purveyors of hate. They will institute restrictions on free speech in order to protect the people and safeguard everyone from being offended by you and those like you.”
“They can spout whatever stupidities they want in council chambers, as they did last night,” said Harringgold, “but if they move beyond that and enact laws that remove freedoms, we will not stand for it.”
Pipkorn smiled ear to ear. “Of course you won’t. That’s exactly what they’re counting on. As I said afore, they want you and your supporters to move against them. That's one of their chief goals, for when you do, they will declare you outlaws and traitors, and they will crush you and yours, all the while hiding behind the law. They will use some charade to convince others, maybe even themselves, that they aren’t in the wrong, and that you are. This is an old thing. It has happened many times afore and it will happen again. What’s different here is that Lomion is the greatest city of the world — the greatest city since the Dawn Age and the time of Asgard and Odin. If Lomion falls, freedom dies, and may not arise and shine as brightly for untold ages. We must counter their maneuvers and we must preserve the republic.”
“A devious plan, if true,” said Harringgold. “But after what I witnessed in council session, I believe them capable of anything.”
“And if we don't take their bait?” said Tenzivel.
“If the Articles are thrown down, they’ve won. That's their goal. Eliminating the opposition merely strengthens their position. I suspect if they succeed in overturning the Articles and you don't move against them of your own accord, they will find some way to murder you,” Tenzivel, “and frame Harringgold and his supporters on the High Council.”
“Such treason rises nearly to madness,” said Harringgold. “But it’s consistent with their maneuvers in council.” Harringgold shook his head. “Such deviousness is beyond m
e.”
“And that’s what they’re counting on,” said Tenzivel, his voice quiet and somber.
“Indeed, my Lord,” said Pipkorn. “These are the ways great nations fall. They must purge you from the leadership one way or another. The guile of the Alders runs deep; the guile of the Vizier is bottomless. They think many moves ahead. You must too, or outmaneuvered you will be.”
“If Pipkorn is correct, my Lord, perhaps it would be best for you to leave the city. We can safeguard you —.”
Tenzivel raised his hand to silence the Duke. “I will never agree to that, so let’s discuss it no further.”
“Then name Cartegian to the throne. Get the crosshairs off your forehead and have your son move on the League.”
Pipkorn looked surprised at these words; Tenzivel the more so.
“They would kill him, almost certainly,” said Tenzivel. “I’ll not risk that. He may be mad, but he's still my son and I hold him dear.”
“Then send him away and thereby protect your bloodline.”
“No. The bloodline means nothing if a Tenzivel doesn’t sit the granite throne. Harringgold — from this moment forward, I decree that your primary task is to resist the League’s attempts to gain control of the Tribunal and amend or vote down the Articles of the Republic. Give this your full attention and priority above all else.”
“Aye, my Lord.”
Their meeting concluded, Harringgold and Pipkorn exited the throne room, leaving Tenzivel alone to his thoughts. Cartegian scampered up to them as they turned down the King’s Corridor, a hunk of bread dangling from his mouth.
“Good day, Prince Cartegian,” said Harringgold with a nod, though he continued walking past. Pipkorn ignored him altogether.
“Oh no, Mr. Boring, I’m not Cartegian. He was my great-grandfather. The poor old sot died years ago waiting for you and Old Pointy to get gone from the throne room. Has anyone ever babbled as much as you two? I think not. Not even my troll when he still had a tongue.”
The prince hopped into the throne room, and continued hopping nearly to the King’s dais. When he heard the throne room’s doors close, he turned toward them.
“We’re alone,” said Tenzivel.
Cartegian straightened and wiped the drool from his chin.
“Were you able to hear?” said Tenzivel, his voice strong, no hint of a drunken slur.
“Almost every word,” said Cartegian, his voice strong and sound as well, his eyes clear and focused.
“The wizard is wise,” said Tenzivel. “He sees the League’s plots and he’s learned the lessons of history. He will be a useful ally in the troubled times to come, if he stays ahead of the League’s assassins.”
“I still don’t trust him,” said Cartegian.
“Nor do I, my son. Partly because he’s more than he seems.”
“Isn’t everyone?” said Cartegian, a smug smile across his face.
XII
SONG OF THE DEEP
Korrgonn stood silent and still as stone atop a flattened boulder of black basalt. That craggy rock, thrown up from the world's core in some nameless, forsaken epoch had never before felt the press of a man’s foot, if the son of Azathoth could even rightly be called a man. It had lingered here through all the world's ages, untouched, unmoved, awaiting its purpose.
Korrgonn’s eyes were shut. His ankh glowed softly in his right hand. A minute passed and then another, and still he did not stir.
The men of his expedition stood about the boulder, eyes locked on Korrgonn. They strove to be silent and still and barely dared to breathe.
The ancient stone beneath Korrgonn’s feet began to rumble and vibrate, louder and louder, until at last it cracked asunder, fractured to its core. It crumbled to dust beneath Korrgonn’s feet, its energy, its very essence drained to serve his need. But Korrgonn didn’t fall as the stone collapsed — he hovered there for a moment, suspended in midair by means unknown, and then slowly sank until his feet again rested on solid stone. He opened his eyes and pointed. “That way,” he said. “That way lies Dagon.”
“That way goes where?” whispered Frem. “Did he say ‘dragon’? I don’t want to fight no stinking dragons.”
Sevare looked at him, but said nothing, his face gone all white and clammy.
Putnam responded quietly. “He said Dagon. That must be the name of some town or village. Probably a dung hole swarming with cannibals.”
The troop reformed their lines, each man in his place, and resumed their trek — Frem and his Pointmen positioned well out in front of the others, as always.
Here and there as they traversed the barren rocky expanse, they came upon carved menhirs inscribed with likenesses of the fish-men engaged in all forms of wanton terrors, vile debaucheries, and grotesque blasphemies, sadistic or carnal. Torture and human sacrifices, even of children, were proudly depicted on those polluted stones, some painted in multiple colors, some mere primitive pictograms, some few lifelike in their skill and detail. The lines and strokes of most of the craven images were wide and clumsy — born of thick, inhuman hands.
As they traveled deeper inland toward the heart of the isle, the menhirs became more frequent and snaked a path through the barren, soulless sea of stone. The island was permeated with an overwhelming sense of age, of antiquity — in the carvings, the rock, even the very air itself.
After a time, they heard deep humming sounds, soft and distant at first, then louder as they marched on. When they neared the center of the isle, they discerned the din to be a chorus of hundreds of inhuman voices that chanted in some guttural tongue and called out to beings from the beyond.
Moag stalked back from the point, low and quiet. He expertly chose a path devoid of loose stone that could shift and give away his position. The task was easy enough for him, for lugron were at home in the high mountains, so careful movement over stone to him came natural. He signaled that more fish-men were ahead, and skulked back until he crouched before Frem and Sevare. “Two guards,” he said in a thick lugronish accent.
“And the others?” said Frem.
“Can't see them. They be down some gully over the rise.”
“Can we get to the guards?” said Frem.
“Their ears are on their kind, so we can make bow range easy, maybe get close enough to gift them with a spear or two. One volley is all we’ll get, and if them shots go high, they’ll land down the hill and we’ll have the whole lot on us.”
“Over there,” continued Moag, “be an evil place. It don’t feel right, and stinks something bad. There be two big pillars over there, bigger than any we’ve passed. They got some giant lizard thing carved into them, with the fish-men bowing down before it, like it was a god.”
“Sounds like we’re in the right place,” said Sevare.
“Get the red giant,” said Frem.
Two fish-man guards lay dead on the cold stone, their milky blood pooled about them, bubbling and foaming as was its wont. One lay on its back, Mort Zag's spear through his head. The throw took it through the eye and came out the back of its narrow skull; an instant kill. The other lay on its stomach, two steel tipped arrows lodged in its back, another in its leg, its head staved in by Moag and Royce as it tried to crawl away and call for its fellows.
Frem, Putnam, and Sevare lay on their bellies and peeked over the rise. Just beyond its crest began a wide stair that descended into a grand stone amphitheater that overflowed with the sight, sounds, and stench of the fish-men. The place, a vast expanse of narrow but steep stone terraces that served both as steps and seating, all arrayed in circular fashion centered about a watery pit at the very bottom. This black pool was more than thirty feet in diameter and ringed with a high altar of black stone.
Scattered around the seating bowl, the fish-men squatted and chanted unholy verses in practiced, rhythmic fashion; hundreds of alien voices rose and fell together, their bodies swayed and rocked in an inhuman, hypnotic dance. No doubt to them, their song held beauty, comfort, and depth of meaning, but to t
he human ear, it was a skirling, oppressive din, a cacophony of madness that caressed notes beyond the range of any throat or ear of man; their song all the more eerie for its echoes off the barren stonescape of the amphitheater.
“Dead gods, what a stink,” said Putnam.
Sevare looked down on the scene before them and spit a mouthful of tobacco juice behind a stone. “Must be hundreds of them down there.”
Frem took another quick peek. “Hundreds. Oh, boy.”
“A dozen were trouble enough,” said Putnam. “If Korrgonn has us charge that lot, we're done for.”
“Watch it, he's coming,” said Sevare.
Korrgonn crawled up behind them. Putnam yielded his position without a word. Korrgonn looked over the rise and took in the scene below without reaction.
“You gaze now on the home of the dwellers of the deep,” whispered Korrgonn. “An ancient breed, far older than any race of man.”
“Never heard of them,” said Frem.
Korrgonn turned to Frem, looking as if he'd never seen him before. “There's few of them left now, and they don't abide men. They prefer the cold dark of the deep sea and the depths of the earth, where it's quiet; where they still hold sway.”
“Did you know they were here?” said Frem. “On this island?”
Korrgonn turned his attention back to the dwellers. “Those openings in the rock face down there,” he said. “Near the bottom, do you see them?”
“Beyond the pool?” said Sevare.
“Yes,” said Korrgonn. “Those lead to a warren of caverns and underground pools lit only by glowing lichen, if even that. That's where they live. Somewhere very deep there will be a passage that leads into the sea. What mysteries from the Dawn Age and beyond lurk in those warrens, no man will ever know. Like as not, no human has ever seen this view before and lived. Mark it well,” he said, “for after today, it will never be thus again.”
Dwellers of the Deep (Harbinger of Doom Volume 4) Page 15
