Dwellers of the Deep (Harbinger of Doom Volume 4)

by Thater, Glenn

  “Not if we give them what they want. Pay the tax.”

  “Never.”

  “Not even if it means our lives?”

  “Not even.”

  “As your wife, that makes me angrier than I can say, but as Lady Malvegil, that makes me more proud than I say. You must go to Lomion. You must speak to the Lords if there's any chance at all of undoing this edict.”

  “There's a chance. Not much, but a chance.”

  “And if you fail? Then what?”

  “Then I suppose I’ll finish what my nephew started.”

  Landolyn looked shocked. “You mean to kill the Chancellor?”

  “A duel, fair and honorable, though I’ll not show the mercy Claradon did.”

  “I’ll not hear of it. You’re not a young man anymore, my love. Duels, if for anyone, are for the young.”

  “I’m not as young as I was, but I’m not old either. Don’t treat me like some stooped graybeard. I’m still in my prime.”

  Landolyn raised her eyebrows and shook her head, her mouth open to say something, but she thought better of it. “I’m sorry. You’re right. You’re not old.”

  “Barusa is older than me by ten years at least. And I’m fit. Fitter than I’ve been in years.”

  “He’ll never fall into such a trap again.”

  “His ego won’t allow him to avoid it. But if it does, then I’ll do what needs be done.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That means, if the edict isn’t overturned, one way or another, I’ll see Barusa dead. I’ll bring down the whole High Council if I have to, but I’ll not stand by and let Lomion fall to the Alders and their like.”

  “Dead gods, has it really come to this?” said Landolyn.

  “They’ve brought us to this brink,” said Malvegil. “If they want what we’ve built here, they’ll have to take it. I’ll not hand it over, edicts be damned.”

  “They’ll try. One way or another, they will try.”

  “And they’ll swim in blood for it.”

  XIV

  SUMMONING

  Though he struggled to appear calm and natural, Bire Cabinboy walked stiff-legged and white-faced through the shadowy corridor of The Black Falcon's cargo deck, his demeanor announcing to all, or so he feared, his undeniable guilt, but since no one was about, his fears mattered naught. The deck was quiet — as quiet as a big sailing ship packed with soldiers and seamen was wont to be. Nevertheless, each moment that the ship’s alarm bells failed to toll, surprised him. Each step that he didn’t hear his name shouted in angry voice shocked him. Surely, every man aboard knew by now what he had done — his disloyalty, his wanton betrayal.

  Not yet. His black deed only lately completed. They couldn’t know yet, could they? Were they waiting for him even now in the rear storage hold, swords and axes drawn; a sack ready to drop over his head? Was the navigator already trussed up and squealing, or skewered and dead — an Eotrus blade through his heart? Perhaps his head already adorned the mast — food for the gulls. Would he end up there too, or was he too small, too worthless, to warrant even that dubious honor? They would probably just run him through and dump his corpse into the drink.

  Foolish thoughts. No one knew what he had done. Not yet. The plan may yet be successful; then it wouldn’t matter who knew what.

  The hardest part was behind him. He’d sauntered past Claradon Eotrus’ tin-cans, all upturned noses and spit and polish like all their ilk, and entered the Captain’s Den, ostensibly to go about his duties as he did each day. Low as he was, it fell to him to sweep the floor, clean the soiled plates and washbasins, scrub the water closet, and endure every other menial task unfit for men of higher station and better breeding.

  Alone in the Captain’s Den, Bire carefully arranged mop and bucket, broom, brush, and bristle, like actors in a play, ready to emote his innocence and proclaim his punctiliousness at a moment’s notice. His stage set, he focused on weightier deeds than his daily toils.

  Until last week, each time that the room was clear when he entered, he would search its every nook in methodical fashion, just as he'd been instructed. The Eotrus had walked in on him more than once, but he shifted to cleaning so quickly that no one paid him any heed. Sneak-thievery was easy when no one noticed you, and few noticed Bire — short, scrawny, unkempt, and none too pretty with his crooked nose and blotchy complexion.

  After searching the place time and again, Bire concluded that if his charge was here, it could only reside in Theta’s locked trunk and nowhere else. Big and bulky, the trunk rested in a back corner covered by a fancy blanket far cleaner and plusher than the one Bire slept under on cold nights. The blanket’s deep color and intricate pattern screamed made in Ferd, which bespoke high quality and even higher cost. The Captain had a Ferdian blanket about as good, if faded from use, though he’d never waste it as a dust cover. Theta must be stinking rich to treat such a treasure so.

  Same as most common folk, Bire held little love for the rich. They looked down their noses at him when they bothered to look at all. They thought themselves his betters. But for the fortunes of birth, Bire could’ve been one of them. Should have been. He was clever enough. He worked hard when it suited him. He deserved better than his lot. That’s why he fell in with the navigator. Darg Tran told of how the League was out for the regular folks, not the nobles, and not the wealthy merchants and knights always favored by the government. Doing this deed for the League would put him in good stead. He wasn’t sure how much they would pay, since Darg was vague on the particulars, but it would be a lot, he was sure, enough the set him up in a decent cottage in Lomion City, or so he hoped. He would have a bedroom, a separate sitting room, and a kitchen, like proper folk. There would be an outhouse just a stretch down the way so he wouldn’t get too cold or wet in the bad weather, but far enough so as not to stink up the cottage too much. That would be nice. He deserved it as much as anyone, didn’t he?

  Bire stared for long minutes at that chest, daydreaming of things that could be. What treasures resided within besides what he was sent to find? Together with the League’s payment, would there be enough for a truly better life, the life he deserved, the life he longed for? Enough for a ship of his own? For servants, women, and who knows what more? A smile crept across Bire’s face. He would suffer no sleepless nights for having liberated the chest’s contents from Theta. What had Mr. Fancy Pants ever done to deserve such riches anyway?

  For a full week, Bire had worked the trunk's lock, employing every trick he’d learned growing up on the streets of The Heights in Lomion City. The lock stubbornly refused his every advance. Theta must have paid dearly for such craftsmanship, especially since the trunk was also said to float. Handy that, for sea travel. If your ship went down, your clothes and baubles pop to the surface all dry and dandy. Of course, you would likely be dead or drowned, but at least your drawers would carry on.

  Bire both dreaded and craved defeating the trunk’s lock, for he had some little sense of the consequences. This morning he finally managed it — all quiet, clean and proper — no damage done. With the lock’s opening click, Bire’s heart raced; his pulse pounded at his neck. He glanced again and again at the door, expecting someone to walk in all angry and accusing. He expected to get caught. Even if he made it clean from the room, getting nabbed was a real concern; one that had kept him up for several nights, for without the key, Bire likely couldn’t relock the trunk. Next time Theta checked the chest, he would know at once something was amiss, and suspicion would quickly fall to Bire, for no one but he and the Eotrus men had access to the room. They probably wouldn’t even suspect their own, all high and mighty, every one. They would come straight for him, nooses and knives.

  What if Theta checked the lock a dozen times a day, knights and nobles being all wary and suspicious by nature? Or maybe the oaf hadn't given the trunk a thought since he came aboard. Who could say? This whole venture was reckless, but living reckless always gave Bire a thrill, which was half the reason he s
ailed with Slaayde. Too bad there was nowhere to run to at sea or he would slip them for certain. He ran like the wind and dodged better than a gnome when he needed to.

  Darg said the stuff would be in a small sack or a metal vial or flask or maybe a small box, plain or fancy. Not much help that. He would search and see what was what. The trunk’s pleasant scent struck Bire first. Cedar, leather, and clean linens. Bire inhaled deep and savored it. He let his breath out and took another. It would be nice to have a trunk like that. He didn’t have stuff worth putting in it, but it would be nice to have all the same.

  Bire rummaged about the trunk’s depths, quiet and careful, always an eye to the Den’s door, the fear and thrill of discovery never far from his mind. Dried food of expensive taste; carefully wrapped weapons; fancy clothes; leather-bound books and miscellaneous gear; strange devices, gadgets and contraptions, metal and wood, most of which he couldn't identify, though they looked rich, populated the chest, filling it to its brim. Hard things to sell and to pocket they were, so Bire left them. He hoped for coins or jewels but found none. Near the bottom, Bire found a small locked metal box and knew instinctively his quarry hid inside. Despite its size, the box was weighty. He hefted it from the trunk with two hands and set it on the floor. Its lock was common enough and yielded quickly and cleanly.

  Within was naught but a leather pouch drawn together at the top with a leather cord — the type the rich oft used as money purses. Bire didn’t open it. Not because Darg had warned him that a single touch of the stuff would likely kill him. Bire didn’t believe such hogwash — not much anyway. It was all bunk and bother. Touching stuff didn’t kill you, except for certain poisons what slip in an open wound. Even then, you would probably survive — maybe lose a hand or arm if it got bad enough and went all septic. This stuff wasn’t poison, was it?

  Bire lifted the pouch and marveled at its weight. A bag of lead ore weighed less. He cupped the underside of the pouch and gently squeezed. The contents felt loose but stony, like a bag of sand and gravel, though it couldn’t be anything so common. Bire’s heart raced and his eyes flicked to the cabin’s door again and again as sweat dripped down his neck.

  But he’d made it. He closed the box and placed it back in the trunk. He tried to arrange the trunk’s contents exactly as he'd found them, though he realized he hadn’t taken close enough note of what went where. No matter, the deed was done. There was no going back.

  Bire made it out undetected; the stupid guards paid him no heed. He traversed the main deck unmolested, though he felt like every eye was on him and a placard that read guilty was nailed to his forehead.

  When he arrived at the stern’s storage hold, he used the special knock the navigator had taught him. A faint grunt was the only response. His hands shook and his brow dripped with sweat. He fumbled for the key Darg had given him. He unlocked and opened the door, tentatively, his pulse still pounded, not knowing what to expect.

  The room looked different and so did Darg. All the barrels and crates were crowded to the corners and piled high, leaving the room's center clear. Despite his age, near enough to sixty, Bire guessed, Darg was sturdier than most, even for a seaman, but those barrels were heavy. How he managed them on his own, Bire couldn’t fathom.

  The navigator stood in one corner adorned in a ridiculous robe, gaudy, bright, and hooded. Where he had stowed that thing, who could say? Well hidden for certain, for in it he looked like some wannabe wizard dressed up for the bizarre. The more serious sight lay at his feet. Inscribed in chalk on the deck boards was a peculiar, geometric pattern of wavy lines and strange angles that was hard to look at without going all dizzy. Bire couldn’t focus on it, though he tried and grew weak-kneed and nauseous for his efforts. He’d never seen its like. Maybe there was more to Darg Tran than he knew.

  “About time you found it,” said Darg. “Were you followed?”

  “Got here clean. How did you know I found it this time?”

  “Show it to me.”

  Bire pulled the pouch from his waistband and held it up. Darg stepped close and took it from him.

  “I’m to get my reward, right?” said Bire.

  “You’ll get what you deserve. We all do in the end.”

  “What do you mean by that? You’re not going to pull something are you?” said Bire. He tried to sound menacing but fell well short.

  Ignoring him, the navigator raised the pouch and felt its weight. “More than enough.”

  “Enough for what? What’s in there and why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “You didn’t look?”

  “I didn’t want to get dead.”

  “Smart thinking.”

  Darg carefully opened the pouch and peered in. He angled it so Bire could see inside. It contained nothing but black gravel and dust.

  Bire’s eyes widened with alarm. “It’s not my fault, I thought that was it.” Bire started to back away, his hand fumbled for his knife as panic crept over his face. “I’ll go back. I won’t stop until I find it — just give me another chance.”

  “Not so fast, boy. You did your job well and good and you’ve earned some truth. These broken bits and pieces might look like sorry rubbish but they’re what we’re after. They've got a power in them; even the littlest bits. They’re holy — all that’s left of something called an Orb of Wisdom. It and others like it came down from Nifleheim in olden days. The orbs got the power to open a doorway back to Nifleheim itself — to where the Lord Azathoth holds court; from where he watches us even now.” Darg glanced up at the ceiling, a hand placed over his heart.

  Bire stood blank-faced for some moments. “Are you serious? A doorway to Nifleheim?”

  Darg nodded.

  “That should be worth a lot, shouldn’t it? Something what can do that must be rare.”

  “That power got busted with the orb by that no-good Theta — curse his black soul. But even these bits got some use. They can pull open a portal — no grand gateway that Lord Azathoth would ever use — but a small hatch fancy enough for one of the lord’s servants. It won’t stay open long, but long enough.”

  “Is that what this business is about?” said Bire as he pointed to the strange pattern on the floor. “You’re giving it a go, yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Some servant to Azathoth, you say? You plan to conjure up a chambermaid or butler to the gods? Maybe Azathoth’s cabin boy and I can exchange notes? Have you lost it? Magic is not real, Mister. It’s all bunk. And what do you know about it, anyways? You look ridiculous, by the way.”

  Darg narrowed his eyes. “You saw what the Eotrus wizard did in Tragoss Mor. You saw the fire what came from his hand and fried crispy more than a hundred men. No bunk was that, boy. That was power, raw and deadly. That bugger’s got the juice and old Darg — I got some too.”

  “Everybody knows he used some ancient gizmo gifted him by Old Pointy Hat, Pipkorn himself. Probably a one-shot deal. Unless you’ve got some old magic thingamabob from who knows when hanging about, there’ll be no mystical doors opening hereabouts anytime soon.”

  “I know what I’m doing, and now I've got everything I need to do it. The orb shards are the catalysts I need for a summoning.”

  “The shards are what? You’re no tower wizard, Darg Tran. You’re just an old seadog. Have you lost all sense?”

  “Tower wizards don’t hold all the power, boy. I've been trained up good with the magic, just as my father was before me, and his before that. The old power runs deep in my family. Just because I chose a seaman’s life don’t take away from that. Besides, I’ve done a deal of conjuring afore today. You saw my handiwork not long ago.”

  Bire looked confused.

  “Them two creepies what attacked the Eotrus over by the Dead Fens. They were Einheriar — holy warriors out of Asgard. I called them up and I’m proud of it. Biggest conjure what I ever dared by a long stretch. I hoped they would have the juice to take out Theta.”

  “They almost took out the captain.”


  “Bad luck that was, but the captain is still kicking, praise Azathoth. Tough bugger, he is. Now, if you know what's good for you, you’ll not talk against me again,” said Darg, menace in his voice.

  Bire took a step back. “I meant nothing by it,” said Bire as he poised to run for it.

  “Forget it, boy, you knew no better, but now you do. I’ve work to do and your help is welcome. I’ll not be calling up no cooks or maids or other common folk from Nifleheim, if even they have them there. I’ll be bringing over a Brigandir. Ever heard tell of them?”

  “Nope.”

  “They’re mystical warriors what serve Lord Azathoth. Top troops, even by Nifleheim reckoning. Far and away beyond the power of two Einheriar. Only one as tough as that can stand up to the Harbinger. And if we’re lucky, our boy will best Theta and Midgaard will be free of him at last. Once he’s gone, we’ll mop up his men, though even that will be a close fight. Bloody lot of knifework it’ll be, but if the crew stands with us to a man, we will see it done.”

  “Theta doesn’t seem no worse than the rest of the Eotrus lot.”

  “Well, he is. They’re just greedy, stupid fools with mixed up heads. He’s something else altogether. Not a man at all is he. Some kind of demon held over from the Dawn Age, or so they say. Looks rarely tell the whole tale, lad. That one is the most evil thing what ever set foot on Midgaard. We’ve a duty to take him down or die trying. And if we die, at least we’ll go down as heroes. What old seadog or snot-nosed cabin boy could ask for more than that? So are you with me?”

  “Aye,” said Bire as he wiped his nose with his sleeve. “What do we have to do?”

  “We've got to go slow. There’s more to this summoning than any I've done before. One mistake, one slip-up or bungled word and the whole thing will be botched. If that happens, something else may hear my come-hither and come calling instead. Some thing from the black depths of Gehenna or the icy wastes of Archeron. A monster or who knows what. We don’t want no part of that, lad. Believe me, we don’t.”