A scream burst out, a pitiful cry of agony that for a moment eclipsed the roar of the dwellers' song. The men inched up the rise again and looked over.
“Dead gods,” said Sevare. “On the altar.”
“I didn't see them before,” said Frem. “Oh, boy.”
What struck the men's hearts cold was what lay on the grim stone altar that encircled the central pool. Atop that ancient basalt slab, stained of old with the blood of untold sacrifices, laid the mutilated bodies of the missing men from The White Rose's scouting party. Each wretched victim tied down and flayed open; the faces of three forever frozen in a mask of pain and horror; their organs extracted one by one by the deft knife-work of the dwellers' high priest. Their hearts laid beside them on the slab, as did their lifeblood, collected in large shells; their intestines extracted and laid bare on platters of flat shell. Lesser priests set to work carving up the innards with long, obsidian knives.
The greatest horror of all was that this atrocity was performed in part while the men still lived, for the fourth man, Sir Rewes of Ravenhollow, a young sithian Knight, still writhed atop the altar even as the stooped priest prepared to butcher him. Rewes fought with all his will. His jaw clenched, he struggled to hold back the screams, to deny the fiends the satisfaction.
Even as the men watched helpless atop the rise, the high priest sliced open Rewes' abdomen; his stone blade cut deep and savage. The old dweller reached his clawed hand into the wound and pulled out a loop of Rewes' intestines. Powerless but to watch, at last Rewes screamed.
The old fiend, assisted now by two others pulled out the whole length of Rewes' innards intact, and placed them on a gruesome platter for chopping into footlong pieces. Their butchery completed, the platters were passed about and the dwellers each took a raw piece and began to eat of it.
Korrgonn motioned for the others to approach the rise. The troops scrambled forward, the last few yards on their bellies so they'd not be seen by the dwellers. The officers bunched around Korrgonn, awaiting orders.
The old priest turned and faced the gathered masses. He raised arms that still dripped with the blood of his victims and peered about with his glassy, soulless eyes. No emotion shone in those dead orbs, or across his stiff face, so alien were those dwellers. Their song abruptly ended and the place went still.
The high priest began to chant. Though old and stooped, his voice rose up over his fellows and boomed croaks of fealty and supplication, beseeching their dark god to grant his favor.
And then his tone and tenor changed, subtly at first, then more so. Each wizard amongst Korrgonn's group felt the mystic power of the high priest’s words, though they were alien and incomprehensible. The weave of magic began to stir.
“Make ready your wizard-fire,” said Korrgonn. “When I give the word, and not before, blast them with your most powerful magics. Brackta to the left; Ginalli to the center, and Sevare to the right. We must kill as many as we can with the first strike.”
“A creature will come from that pit,” said Korrgonn. “A beast from the Dawn Age called Dagon. It’s a thing not of Midgaard. Battle it not, for it is beyond you. I will face it; Mort Zag will assist me if he can. The rest of you are to keep the dwellers off me. That must be your only thought, your only purpose. Do not fail me, though your sacrifice be great.”
“We can’t fight hundreds of those things,” said Frem.
“We won't have to,” said Ginalli. “We have the high ground and it’s wide open down there.”
“So?” said Frem.
“We’ve magic that can deal with them,” said Brackta.
“So many?”
“Two archmages of the League of Shadows can destroy a city,” said Ginalli. “We have that, plus Par Sevare. We can manage them, though we’ll need your swords to assist.”
The dwellers joined in the high priest's incantation, and the ground shook from the power of their call. The lesser priests picked up the conch shells filled of blood and held them before the black pool. At the appointed time, they tipped the shells and poured the fresh blood, the blood of man, into the depths of that evil pit, their alien song droned on all the while.
After a time, the water in the pool began to roil and bubble. At once, the pace and volume of the dwellers' song increased. The chanting reached a manic, dizzying pace. The sounds so loud, so pounding that the men covered their ears and prayed for its end. The dwellers’ magic permeated the air. The men’s bodies shook and vibrated. It was hard to breathe. Their heads felt as if they would explode. Soon the water sloshed over the altar, and then, at the very height of the skirling song, a geyser of crimson water burst forth and shot far into the air, far above the top of the rise, and a great black form followed in its wake, rising out of the well, propelling from the lightless depths. The creature rose up and up, out of the black murk, massive and dark, an otherworldly reptilian monstrosity, a thing of blackest nightmare and fevered babblings, higher and higher it rose, its bulk immense, and the world knew despair, for before them arrived the Old One, Dagon of the Deep.
XIII
DEATH OR TAXES
The envoy’s footsteps echoed loudly in Dor Malvegil’s great hall as he approached the Lord’s Table with smug expression, rolled up parchment in hand. A small man, slight and balding, but not old. He was smartly dressed in the style of Lomion City bureaucrats, fabric rich enough to announce his noble birth to those who didn’t notice his expensive perfume. He planted himself at least two steps closer to the Lord’s table than propriety permitted; a fact not lost on the Dor’s aged Castellan, Hubert Gravemare, who looked down on the little man with undisguised distaste.
“Your message?” said Gravemare, dispensing with the pleasantries reserved for more favored guests.
The envoy tilted his head and stared at the Castellan, amused, like an adult insulted by an upstart child. He turned his gaze to Lord Malvegil who sat before him, stoic and silent, his exotic lady at his side, silent as well. She rarely spoke in court; she didn’t have to. After audience with Lord Malvegil, most men couldn’t recall what he looked like, little less what he said, having spent all their willpower on not staring at his stunning consort’s matchless curves and near flawless features. Less refined guests stared openly. Either way, their distraction gave Malvegil good advantage in any negotiation. And he used it. This envoy, however, didn’t seem to notice her.
“Greetings, my Lord Malvegil,” said the man, his casual words appropriate only for a high-placed nobleman on par with a Dor lord. “I am Brock of Alder, duly appointed envoy of the Crown, here on official business of great import.”
“Of course you are,” said Gravemare, sardonically. He rolled his eyes on hearing the envoy’s name, as the Alders were not favored by the Malvegils, the feeling being mutual. “What is your business?”
“A small matter of funding,” he said, eyes locked on Lord Malvegil. “The Crown has authorized additional levies.” He presented his scroll and made to step closer but the point of Gravemare's walking stick poked his chest and held him back.
“No closer,” said Gravemare. “Hand me the scroll and get back in your place, Alder.”
Brock fingered the walking stick aside and held his ground. He handed Gravemare the scroll but avoided his gaze.
“It bares the King’s seal, my Lord,” said Gravemare, “the wax unbroken.” He stared down at Brock. “If the Crown petitions for additional funding, House Malvegil will of course consider the request and respond appropriately in due time. If there’s nothing else, good day to you, Sir.”
Brock shook his head dismissively. “This levy is not optional, my lord,” he said, a hint of distaste dripping from his mouth. “The High Council passed the edict, ratified in due course by the Council of Lords and signed into law by his royal majesty Prince Cartegian on behalf of the Crown.”
“The kingdom’s levy has stood at five percent for generations,” said Gravemare.
“Now it stands at fifty.”
“Fifty?”
“And will likely do so for as long, unless the Council sees fit to raise it the higher.”
“Ridiculous.” Gravemare tore open the scroll and scanned its contents, disbelief on his face. “This must be a jest.”
“The Crown does not jest,” said Brock, his tone now all too serious. “You noted the King’s seal and now see the prince’s mark. All is in order, I assure you, but examine it as closely as you will. Take all the time you want. It will change nothing.”
“What crisis provokes this?” said Lord Malvegil. “Is the Council raising a war chest against some enemy?”
“My Lord,” said Gravemare, “the writ implies this is a permanent levy.”
“Permanent?” said Malvegil.
“No Dor can operate under such a tax,” said Gravemare.
“Sheer madness. Robbery,” grunted Malvegil, his knuckles white against his chair’s arms. “The Crown has no claim to these monies. This is Malvegil revenue right and proper.”
“Legal decree gives the Crown the right to the revenue.”
“What is the purpose of this, Alder?” said Malvegil.
“It’s quite simple, actually. The Lomerian treasury requires substantial additional funding and you and the other Dor lords have the funds.”
“Funding for what?”
“I should think that would be obvious even here in the provinces. There are many needy people to care for throughout the realm — the poor, the old, the infirm, the sick, not to mention the foreign workers trying to establish themselves, good people come to Lomion seeking a better life for their families. There are many worthy segments of society long neglected and underrepresented. They need the Crown's support and they shall receive it. It’s the right thing to do. It’s the moral thing to do. And this edict makes it so.”
“By stealing my money?” said Malvegil.
“Not stealing, my Lord. These measures are being enacted completely aboveboard and within the law. The redistribution of revenue will be performed fairly and honorably. Every Dor will bear the same burdens, excepting those that themselves have been historically disadvantaged. In any case, my Lord, I’m certain you will understand that I’m not charged with debating the merits of these points with you. I’m here merely to inform you of the edict, to give you time to gather the funds for collection next month. No doubt, you will elect to sell various holdings to raise the sums. We understand that such matters take time. We wouldn’t want to catch you unprepared.”
“We will confirm the efficacy of this writ with Lomion City,” said Gravemare.
“By all means,” said Brock. “I would expect nothing less from the Malvegils.”
“The Dor lords will not stand for this,” said Malvegil. “Not one will give in to this madness.”
Brock looked amused. “So I’ve been told by a number of other Dor Lords. I will tell you what I told them. The Crown will not suffer any defiance on this. Any lord that fails to present the required funds will be stripped of his title and his holdings. All his property will be sold at auction, the proceeds deposited into the Lomerian treasury.”
“The Council has neither the stomach nor the strength to do such stripping,” said Malvegil.
“You people actually think the funds you collect are yours. They’re not. The council and the Crown grant you title and charter without which you’re nothing. By all rights, the tax should be one hundred percent. You should be grateful at fifty. . .”
“Grateful?” boomed Malvegil as he smashed his hand on his armrest. “I should be grateful?”
“You Malvegils have wallowed in wealth and extravagance all too long while the people starve and suffer. Look at this place,” he said as he gazed up at the high rafters and around the large hall. “Such a waste; the decadence. How dare you live like this when there are people starving, when there are people out of work for months, some for years? When I walk the streets and see the poor, the disadvantaged, and then I enter a place like this, it disgusts me.”
Malvegil's voice went slow and icy. “No one is starving on Malvegil land and any unnatural suffering is of their own making, not mine. Look around my streets — find me a beggar — there are none. Everyone has a job that wants one and is fit to work. Any man or woman that works hard here can make a good life for them and theirs.”
“And the rest are ushered out, disposed of like so much refuse,” said Brock.
“A man must take personal responsibility. He can’t just sit back and expect to be taken care of by the Crown or by others.”
“And why not? You think a hard worker is more entitled to live, to eat, to have a family or a roof over their heads than someone who isn’t? They’re not, they’re just different. And who are you to judge anyway? You think yourself better than the lowliest tradesman on your docks? You're not. All people have equal value and worth, no matter their skills, or station, or bloodline. Your blue blood means nothing in Lomion any longer. Times are changing, Lord Malvegil. The old system of Lords and peasants will soon be a thing of the past, a relic best forgotten. This is your one chance to do the right thing and change with it, or else be swept aside. Open up your halls, Lord Malvegil, and let the people in. Let the common folk dine at your table. Let them enjoy the comforts of your castle. It’s their right and due as much as it is yours, perhaps more so. After all, it was their sweat and blood that built these walls.”
“What? Are you suggesting I host a feast and open the Dor up to the public?”
“You’re as dense as a doorknob, Malvegil, and only half as interesting. I’m telling you that if you truly cared for your precious people you would abdicate your position and let the people govern your Dor as equal partners alongside you.”
Malvegil’s jaw was set; he gripped the wooden arms of his chair so tightly they threatened to break off.
“You have given us much to think on,” said Lady Landolyn as she reached out and put a hand over her husband’s — a gesture that at once comforted, calmed, and restrained. “When will your auditors arrive to review our ledgers?”
“Within a fortnight. The collection of levies will follow one to two weeks thereafter, if all is in order. Shall I assume that on further consideration you intend to comply with the edict, Lord Malvegil?”
Malvegil took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair, his expression stoic once again, his voice now devoid of emotion. “The Malvegils have ever been loyal to the Crown and that will not change, edict or not. We will comply, under protest, but we will comply.”
Brock looked surprised, then smiled. “A wise decision, my Lord. Follow through with it, as I’m certain that you will, and we will enter a new age of peace and prosperity together.” Brock turned to leave, then spun back again. “I trust you will have no issue with the honor guard that will accompany the auditors and the levy collectors.”
“Who and how many?” said Gravemare.
“Irrelevant. Merely a squadron or two. Such is necessary in these dark times — the Crown’s monies must be safeguarded along the road.”
***
“I was about to order the guards to seal the door,” said Malvegil, tapping his sword hilt as he spoke. “I would have killed him. I would have cut him down right in our audience hall, in our home, but for your hand and your words that broke my fury and gave me the moments I needed to think better of it. You’ve served me well, my love, as always.”
“It would have meant war,” said Landolyn.
Malvegil nodded. “Had I killed him, Barusa would’ve dispatched an army to siege us. They may even have tried an assault.”
“And now? What of his promised honor guards? Do you think they’ll send only one or two squadrons as he said?”
“It will be a full brigade at least. It would be too easy for us to deal with fewer than that, and they know it. They will infiltrate us with spies and with their regulars, if they can. Once they do, it will be hard to displace them. If Barusa intends to seize control of Lomion, he may even send a full corps behind them. They will attack after the
ir infiltrators disrupt us or commandeer the lifts.”
“What do we do?”
“We do the only thing that we can do, my love. We let them in with a broad smile and open arms. Then, when the time is right, we kill them all.”
Landolyn’s eyes went wide. “We can’t, Torbin. That will force Barusa’s hand. He’ll have to send an army against us. He may go after Glimador too. We can’t take that chance. If we wipe out a brigade of Lomerian Soldiers, the High Council will back him, even the Lords may take their side. There will be no safe place in all of Lomion for us, and one way or another, we will lose the Dor.”
“Most every path I see leads to war or to us losing the Dor,” said Malvegil. “These walls have stood unbreached under Malvegil rule for four hundred years. They will not fall under my watch and we will not be displaced.”
“We can't stand against the Lomerian army.”
“Aye, but mayhaps we can hold the siege long enough for them to lose their stomachs for it.”
“I don’t want to live on the run.”
“Nor will you. I will not abandon this place. If it comes to it, the Malvegils will make our stand here, on this ground, our ground. Woe to any who try to take it from us.”
“There may be another option,” said Landolyn. “Take the fight to them. Go to Lomion City and plead our case before the Council of Lords. Many will stand with you.”
Malvegil nodded. “That has merit. It’s bold. I like it. But it may be exactly what Barusa wants. He can't break these walls, but if he can lure me out, into the city . . .”
“Dead gods, do you think they’ll . . .”
“— try to kill me again? They don’t like me any better now, so yes, I imagine Barusa will try again, assuming he was behind the other attempt, which I’m not certain of.”
“Just forget what I said. I wasn’t thinking. Your place is here.”
“If I don’t go, more than likely we all die.”
Dwellers of the Deep (Harbinger of Doom Volume 4) Page 16
