Claradon looked to Ob—a worried expression covered his face.
Ob stepped forward. “I am Ob A. Faz III, Castellan and Master Scout of Dor Eotrus,” he said, steamy breath rising from his mouth as he spoke, though it should not have been so cold inside. “With me is Brother Claradon Eotrus, Lord of Dor Eotrus. We seek your council in these dark times, if Pipkorn you be.”
“You have a sorcerer amongst you,” said Pipkorn. “Let him step forward.”
Ob looked annoyed, and turned toward Tanch who stared at his feet. The wizard shivered in the cold that dominated the room, but dared not advance. Claradon motioned for him to step forward and he did, albeit slowly and tentatively. “It is I, Master Pipkorn, Par Tanch Trinagal of the Gray Tower, House Wizard for the Eotrus.”
“Talbon of Montrose is House Wizard for the Eotrus.”
“I beg your pardon, Master Pipkorn, as it is not my place to contradict you, but I regret to inform you that Par Talbon fell, along with his liege, Lord Aradon, two weeks ago, deep within the Vermion Forest.”
Silence ruled the chamber for some moments.
“These are losses of consequence,” said Pipkorn. “The Eotrus have my sympathy.”
“We thank you for that,” said Claradon, stepping forward, his voice as shaky as Tanch’s. “We need to speak plain and true with you about dark tidings.”
Silence.
“Perhaps, your wizardship,” said Ob, “we could retire to a tabled room and sit a spell as we talk?”
Silence.
“I would surely like not to shout and rather look,” said Ob. “Not to mention, my neck is getting rather stiff looking up.”
“We can hear and see each other well enough,” said Pipkorn.
Ob sighed. “We have come to speak of the Shadow League, or The League of Light, as some call it.”
Silence.
“We're trying to find a man called Korrgonn—a Leaguer by all accounts but new to Lomion,” said Ob. “Has a group of nasties with him. They travel with a strange carriage.”
“Why come to me with such questions?”
“Harringgold pointed us your way. The Duke says that the League is no friend to you, nor you to them. We expect that you keep track of them as best you can.”
“Why do you seek Korrgonn?”
“He and his killed several of our folk some days back.”
“In the Vermion?”
“At Riker's Crossroads.”
“Did Korrgonn have a hand in Aradon Eotrus' death?”
“That was trolls, down from the mountains north of us. They come with the mist, in the cold years, every now and again; always with the mist.”
“I have heard such stories before, many times, but not in long years,” said Pipkorn.
“Do you know anything about Korrgonn, or not?” said Ob.
“Perhaps I do. If I do, I might tell you, but not unless you tell me what really went on in the Vermion. How did Aradon Eotrus meet his end, and how did Talbon of Montrose fall?”
Silence.
“Then of Korrgonn, you will learn nothing from me.”
Ob's cheeks grew red and his jaw stiffened as he clenched his teeth.
“Now look here, Mister Wizard, this Korrgonn fellow is as bad as they come and we're to stop him. If you are on our side, you should help us. But perhaps you're not. Maybe you've gone over to the League or maybe you're not Pipkorn at all, but some cloaked imposter whose mother was a lugron,” said Ob, his voice growing steadily louder. “Take that stinking hood off, come down here, and talk to us like men, or so help me, I will get up there somehow and tear you limb from limb.”
Theta chuckled quietly from the shadows.
There was a pause, and then Pipkorn let out a long, slow laugh. “Well spoken.” Pipkorn arose, turned, and exited through a door that appeared at his back, though it wasn't there before or at least went unnoticed.
After some moments, the great door to the rotunda opened behind them and there stood Pipkorn: a stout man of average height and of late middling years, with a bushy blond and gray mustache. Mostly bald, he had a large boil at the top center of his forehead.
“I am Pipkorn,” he said in a confident, booming voice, though much diminished from its sound on high. His black robe and cowl gone, he wore a strange knit shirt that extended up to his chin, gray breeches, and soft leather boots.
Claradon, Tanch, and even Ob, stood agape, intimidated in the presence of the world's most renowned wizard.
Theta stepped from the shadows and Pipkorn met his piercing gaze. Pipkorn's eyes grew wide, his hands fidgeted against his sides, and he took a half step back. The glow vanished from his face and he seemed to physically diminish; he looked as if he was about to turn and run.
The slightest grin formed on Theta's face. “Greetings, wizard,” said Theta.
Pipkorn let out a sigh. “Greetings—I had no idea that you were one of my guests. If I had, I would have made more suitable arrangements. My apologies.”
“You're slipping in your old age, Pipkorn,” said Theta. “Lord Angle Theta is not easy to miss, the shadows of your chamber notwithstanding.”
“Indeed,” said Pipkorn with a knowing nod. “Let us retire to the drawing room. There we can converse more comfortably.”
“Are you kidding me?” muttered Ob. “He knows Old Pointy Hat too?”
Pipkorn turned and extended his arm toward the hallway on the right. The men filed past.
“After you, Lord Theta,” said Pipkorn when only Theta and he remained.
Theta shook his head and pointed at Pipkorn and then down the hall. He would not allow Pipkorn to walk behind him. The wizard turned and headed stiff-legged down the hall, wiping his brow as he went. Theta followed, his hand never leaving the hilt of his falchion.
Unlike the menacing audience chamber, Pipkorn's drawing room was warm, with dark paneled wood, a large fireplace, and plush carpets of exotic origin. The rosewood table at its center, inlaid with a thick marble slab, hosted the group. The aged servant laid out platters of food and filled goblets with red wine.
Pipkorn spoke from the high-backed chair at the table's head while munching on cheese and crackers, crumbs collecting on his shirt. “Men and a carriage that match the description of your brigands entered Southeast yesterday morning. Several of them were on horse, more than a dozen others rode in the carriage; one of those matches the description of your Korrgonn. His companions include several captains of the Shadow League—most of them wizards: necromancers, chaos sorcerers, and the like. Some of them are not volsungs, or at least, are volsungs no longer; perhaps demon spawn or something else, I know not. Several lugron also travel with them. A most unsavory lot they are. The carriage itself is magical. Rarely have I seen such as it. Its dweomer is powerful and harkens back to olden days. Above it and that entire unholy group is a sorcerous mantle nigh impenetrable.”
“So you can't track them,” said Theta.
“Not by magery, but my spies track them afoot. These Leaguers, however, are alert and on their guard; my agents can't get close.”
“So you lost them.”
“No, we just haven't got close enough to overhear their plans or to cull their numbers.”
Theta looked surprised. “Then you know where they are?”
“I do. But you must understand, these men are formidable and well protected. They have many supporters. You can't just storm the place—it would mean open warfare in the streets.”
“We cannot delay; Korrgonn's power will only grow. Speak quick, wizard, where are they?”
“At the Temple of Hecate, here in Southeast.”
Pipkorn looked about to gauge the men's reactions.
“All we need,” said Ob as he shook his head. “More damn chaos worshippers—stinking anarchists and Nifleheim lovers, one and all.”
“We're doomed,” said Tanch.
“The Hecate compound appears to be an abandoned warehouse, but that's a front. The Hecates control the place and run it like a for
tress.”
“Why doesn't the watch go in and clean them out?” said Claradon.
“The watch has been corrupted,” said Pipkorn. “Just as have many parts of our government, including the High Council—as, no doubt, you noticed yesterday.”
“What is their strength?” said Theta. “Their numbers?”
“That is not clear,” said Pipkorn, “but enough food goes into that compound to feed two hundred folk. I would think near half of them could bear arms if pressed.”
“Two hundred?” spat Ob, shaking his head. “Our own private little war.”
“This is getting out of hand,” said Tanch. “We can't take on two hundred fanatics.”
Theta turned to Tanch and stared, eyes narrowed, until Tanch flinched and looked away.
“Master Pipkorn,” said Claradon. “Korrgonn and his men must be brought to justice. Will you aid us in this?”
Pipkorn paused for some moments before answering. “I will give you what support I can, but I must work from behind the scenes for reasons both complex and private.”
“A moment ago, you complained that your agents couldn't get close enough to cull their numbers,” said Theta. “Have you a force that can aid us or not?”
“No,” said Pipkorn. He flushed red and looked down at the table for some moments before continuing in halting fashion. “A man—fallen from power—sometimes pretends to hold on—to more than is truly left. I trust, my lord, that you will forgive an old man for that. I will redouble my surveillance of the Hecates and send word to you of anything I learn. I regret that is all the aid that I can offer you.”
“Any other questions for the good wizard?” said Theta. There were none. “Then I would speak with him in private.”
“But of course,” said Ob sardonically, rising, but taking his wine goblet with him.
Theta spoke not again until the others left the room, closing the door behind them. Claradon and Tanch headed to the main entry hall. Claradon couldn't help but smile when he looked back and saw Dolan's ear and Ob's too plastered to the drawing room's door.
“You no longer trust me, my lord?” said Pipkorn.
“What makes you think I ever trusted you?”
“You're tensed—ready to spring and cleave me in two should I make a false move.”
“If you think of making a false move.”
Pipkorn smiled.
“I have seen too many men that I knew of old, turn down the dark road,” said Theta. “Even some who were known for ages to be noble and true.”
“Another effect of the damnable plague,” said Pipkorn. “For all my power, even I am not immune to its degenerating effects. It gnaws on the mind, saps the will, and scrambles the conscience. No evil in all creation has ever been so insidious and so persistent. And yet here we are, long years after the coming of the plague, and little the worse for it.”
“We bear the scars,” said Theta solemnly. “You had more hair back in the day and it wasn't so gray. And you didn't limp.”
“Your memory is impressive, Lord Theta, but it's my art, not my age that has bleached my hair. The sorcery has its own draining effects, I'm afraid. As for the limp, that's new, and was courtesy of the Vizier. The bastard flung a chair into my kneecap—broke it rather badly; haven't found the correct spell to mend it, so it's healing the old-fashioned way.”
“They say you fled and that you're in hiding.”
“True on both counts. I do hope you weren't followed here; I wouldn't want to give up this place—so few decent spots left in Southeast.”
Theta looked at him quizzically.
“The Vizier has many supporters in the Arcane Order—others like him who lust for power for power's sake. I no longer know whom I can trust. Let him have the darned Tower—just a building after all. What matters are the wizards of the order. Those of good conscience have fled to parts more secure; they bide their time, as do I. Would it be too much to ask, that you lend us your support?”
“I have no interest in the squabbles of wizards.”
“You know that there's much more to this than that; all of Lomion is at stake. We're one sword thrust or one poisoned apple away from Cartagian ascending the throne—and the Chancellor will soon follow him.”
“I'm only involved here to vanquish Korrgonn. I have no interest beyond that and little stomach for politics.”
“But you should, my lord. Lomion is beacon of hope for this forsaken world. It's the center of trade, knowledge, and art. One million souls ply its streets at last count. Not since the days of Asgard has there been such a city. It must not fall to darkness.”
“That it is large, there's no doubt, but what I have seen is already dark and squalid. A city long in its decline; a beacon no longer, if ever it was.”
“Then you have seen too little or have gone blind with age. Have you walked the gardens of Rasool or gazed on the Fountains of Findin at midnight? Have you browsed the Museum of the Ancients or strolled the marbled halls of Odin's House on Hightop Hill? Have you quaffed a flagon of elven Enerquest at the Pfister or dined in Pequod's Rest? No, my lord, too little of Lomion fair have you seen; far too little to judge.”
“Perhaps this be true. I did only arrive in this city yesterday, wizard, and I have been a bit busy with Chancellors, Dukes, secret plans, and crotchety wizards—leaving little time for the culture and tourism. In any case, I have little doubt that I will see more of the dark before any of the light. I wouldst find Korrgonn before his powers grow. He must be put down before he can call up others of his ilk.”
“I find it hard to believe he is as you say. Only at the beginning of the plague did such creatures enter Midgaard. Who could open such a gateway today? Who is so mad and foolish and so filled with power?”
“Name him I cannot, but the gateway was opened and through came Korrgonn. Is there anything more you can tell me of his movements or of those with him?”
“I can tell you that if you storm the Temple of Hecate with five men, you will not succeed. They are too many, even if you get the best of them somehow, the others will melt, and the whole endeavor will profit you nothing.”
“Don't presume to lecture me on tactics, wizard, and I will not tell you how to make foul stew in your cauldron or instruct you on the proper techniques of turd readings.”
Pipkorn paled. “I meant no offense, Lord Theta,” he said as a bead of sweat rolled down his temple.
“If he was offended, old boy,” whispered Ob from beyond the door, quiet-like, so that only Dolan heard, “I expect you would be dead.”
The meeting over, Theta made for the door. “Rascatlan,” he said over his shoulder, “If Korrgonn is expecting me, I will visit you one last time.” He stood motionless for a few seconds before striding down the hall. Pipkorn closed the door, turned his back to it, slumped against it, and let out a sigh as beads of sweat trickled down his forehead.
VIII
THE TEMPLE OF HECATE
From darkened alley, Claradon watched a near continuous stream of cloaked figures approach the entrance to the decrepit warehouse that housed the Temple of Hecate. Four guards stood at the doors and inspected tokens that the figures displayed when they approached.
“Hecate's temple is well guarded,” said Tanch. “Unlikely that we could sneak in. Perhaps we should turn back before we're seen.”
“I'm not inclined to,” said Theta.
“What do you propose?” said Ob. “Just a knockety knock and a 'by your leave' at the front door? Perhaps if we ask nicely, they will bring old Korrgonn out all trussed up like a holiday pig for our pleasure.”
Theta ignored him.
“We will need more men for certain, if we hope to accomplish anything here,” said Tanch. “Don’t you agree?”
“Would the Duke give us soldiers?” said Theta.
“Maybe he would send some of Sluug's rangers,” said Ob, “but not his guardsmen. With the rangers, the Duke and Sluug have deniability—the rangers guild being all secretive and such. Few kno
w their members' faces or names. If they're captured, Sluug could disown them, and the Duke might come out clean. Guardsmen are a different thing. Putting them into action would bring open warfare between the Harringgolds and the League. From what we've seen, the Duke is not ready for that. Even if he gives us a squad or two of rangers, them plus our men, won’t be enough. The place is too big; there are too many in there.”
“Where does that leave us?” said Tanch.
“Perhaps a bluff,” said Claradon. “The tokens they’re showing the guards look like the coins that we found on Alder's men; maybe they were headed here all along, and we were just targets of opportunity.”
“Show the guards the coins, and we're in,” said Ob, his face lighting up. “That would be a bold move, for certain. Reckless even.”
“Do we have enough coins?” said Claradon.
Theta held out his palm, displaying several coins. “We do.”
“Excuse me, dear friends,” said Tanch, “but we agreed this would be a reconnaissance mission, not an assault—that's why we didn’t take the rest of our men. We should go back and get them and whatever other help we can muster if we're to even attempt to storm this place. Artol, Glimador, and the others are waiting for us in Dor Lomion—there is no reason for us to do this alone.”
“A soldier must take the opportunities that present themselves,” said Theta. “If we leave and come back with more men, the enemy may have dispersed; we may lose Korrgonn’s trail. I can’t allow that. We're going in.”
“This is madness,” said Tanch. “What—how?—”
Ob chuckled. “It is madness, alright, but I like the sound of it. Walk in all la-de-da with a small group, take out Korrgonn before they know what's happening, and run it. Bold and reckless, but it just might work.”
“I can’t go along with this,” said Tanch. “You will be the death of us all. What can we five do against an army of madmen?”
“Look, listen, and learn,” said Theta, “while keeping silent.”
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