A scream some distance behind Frem was quickly silenced, as was Dagon's pursuit. Frem thought to look back, but before he did, the booming footfalls began anew, signaling Dagon had renewed his chase.
Every step across the unforgiving stone jarred Frem’s knees and the heavy burden he bore left his legs rubbery and weak. His arms ached as he struggled to maintain his grip on Mort Zag's arm and shoulder. Stinging blood dripped into his right eye, though he knew not if it was his or some other’s. Every now and again one of the lugron with him would lose their hold or their footing and go down. The others kept moving; the falterer expected to catch up and resume his position. True to his duty, each man did.
More than once, the entire group stumbled and crashed to the punishing stone. This brought Frem to the brink of panic, for each time they fell, more men passed them and put him closer to the rear of the group, closer to the roaring, bellowing, nightmarish death that hounded them. The overtakers could have relieved Frem's exhausted squad, but they didn’t, they ran on and gave them barely a glance, if even that. Who could blame them, they weren’t racing to outrun Dagon, for its great strides were too long, its powerful legs too swift. They ran to outpace their fellows so when Dagon caught and killed the group’s stragglers, it would not be them. Every man amongst them knew this and every man fought to not be the straggler.
Frem could have carried Little Storrl instead of this red behemoth. With Storrl laid over one shoulder, he would have been halfway back to the beach by now and in no danger of becoming lizard food. But his honor wouldn’t allow it. He couldn’t let his men struggle with a burden that he feared to take on, so he had only himself to blame for his current predicament. Frem felt ashamed to do it, but each time they stumbled, he looked for the rise and fall of Mort Zag's chest. Contrary to all he valued, and only born of fear and desperation, he hoped to find Mort Zag's breathing halted, so he could be done with him and free of this burden without guilt or dishonor. He would gladly risk his life to save a comrade, even one that he never called a friend, but he would not die to carry a corpse.
Another scream assailed Frem’s ears. He turned to see Dagon’s tail wrapped about a sithian not ten yards back. It lifted the struggling man high in the air, and tore him in two with a single bite.
To Frem, this was madness. The whole ordeal surreal. He had fought more than a hundred campaigns and traveled farther and wider than most any man he knew. He had known death in its myriad forms. He had seen countless die at other men’s hands. He had seen them fall to beasts, poison, disease, accident, and weather. But until Ezerhauten had hired the Sithian Company on with the League of Shadows, he had never seen a man die by myth or legend, monster or magic. How could he, for such things didn’t exist — not in his sane, civilized world. But there was a secret world that lurked behind the shadows, well past reason, and just beyond sanity. He knew that now. Here resided the likes of Dagon, and the seaweed creature, the fish-men, the gargoyles of The Keeper’s caverns, the skeletal messenger that Thorn had conjured, and who knows what many monsters more. Now, of a sudden, such creatures seemed everywhere, as common as dirt.
And magic — what he thought was the realm of card-tricksters, palm readers, herbalists, and assorted charlatans, was so much more. Real wizards lurked about — people like Par Sevare, Par Brackta, Father Ginalli, and Glus Thorn. At will, they launched blasts of fire and lightning and incinerated armies. They conjured creatures from other worlds to do their bidding. How could this be? Despite all his travels, he knew naught of such things. He had never seen their like before, save for some small trickeries Sevare had displayed in past missions. He had only heard tell of them in children’s tales and ghost stories whispered by the campfire. Frem no longer knew what was real. Was he lost in a nightmare? Did a fever grip his mind? Had death somewhere caught him and tossed him in some personal hell?
Frem and his group were the stragglers now. Dagon’s pounding steps grew closer and closer. Its bellowing louder and louder, nearly on them.
They kept hold of Mort Zag and sprinted over the ancient stones. Adrenaline carried them forward at a superhuman pace. Frem urged the men on and pushed them to beyond their limits. Of a sudden, Frem felt a blast of air at his back and a sour, fishy scent washed over him. Something brushed his shoulder. This is the end. He looked over, and Dirnel, the tall lugron that ran beside him, was gone. He glanced back, and saw Dirnel enveloped in Dagon’s giant, clawed hand. The beast effortlessly lifted him to its mouth, which stood agape and slavering, large enough to swallow him whole. Frem wanted to turn and fight, but the very thought was foolish and futile, for Dirnel was surely already dead, crushed in that unforgiving embrace. Another Pointman dead. Another of his men dead.
It could've been me. What whim of chance or twist of fate made the beast choose Dirnel, Frem could not fathom, but such thoughts plagued his nightmares forevermore.
The group staggered forward, their burden the heavier for the loss of Dirnel. Frem didn’t even know whether they ran in the right direction. He trusted the men in front to steer their course. For the first time he noticed the strange echoes their boots made as they ran across the isle’s old granite. Their steps induced a rhythmic pounding that reverberated off the surrounding stones. It amplified their footfalls and made them sound like a charging army. After a goodly time, the echoes were interrupted by Dagon's booming footfalls, now far in the distance. He'd finished his latest meal and hungered for more.
XVI
MALVEGIL
Lady Landolyn, consort of Lord Torbin Malvegil bolted upright in bed, her face pale, her hair askew, eyes wide with fear. Half-asleep, nightclothes disheveled and sans makeup, her beauty and youthful appearance were barely diminished. She was still blessed with the same unlined, glowing face, and melodic voice she had twenty-five years before when she married Malvegil, and in fact, now looked barely older than their son. “Torbin!” she said as she smacked her husband’s back to rouse him. “Torbin, get up!”
“Don’t hit me,” said Lord Malvegil into his pillow, still half asleep. “What is it, another stinking dream? I need my sleep. Tell me in the morning.”
Landolyn scowled. “Don’t do that,” she said sharply and smacked his shoulder. “You always act like I’m making it up. You know the women of my House have the sight. We’ve always had it. Now get up.”
“More dire predictions of the future?” he said, his face still buried in the pillow.
“The present. You had best pay heed.”
Malvegil sighed, turned onto his back, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “I’m sorry, alright. I know your visions of the present are almost always true.”
“Not almost always. Always.”
Malvegil sighed again. “I stand corrected. What did you see?”
Landolyn’s scowl remained. “Our son is in distress, if you even care,” she said, her eyes glassy.
Malvegil sat up and turned toward her. He stared into her eyes, his full attention now focused. “Tell me. Does he live?”
“Of course he’s alive. Do you think I would be sitting here arguing with you if—”
“—so what is it? What’s happened?”
“It’s hard to see. At first, I thought it was just the distance, but it’s not. There's a veil of magic hanging over Glim's expedition. It clouds my sight, obscuring things.”
“What can you see?”
“There’s been fighting. Our boy's been in battle, Torbin. More than one. He’s in pain and something has frightened him more than anything in all his life. But he's alive, and not badly hurt, thank the gods.”
“Where is he?”
Landolyn’s eyes narrowed and she looked past her husband, her eyes focused on vistas unseen by normal eyes. “Far away. Beyond this continent. Out at sea, the Azure Sea.”
“The Azure? Dead gods, this I did not expect. Where in Odin’s name are they going?”
She shook her head. “I cannot hope to tell.”
“And Claradon? How fares my nephew? Can
you tell?”
“I don’t know,” she said as she shook her head. “I tried to find him, to touch his mind, but at such a distance, with that mystic fog draped over them, I can’t do it. I can’t sense anyone there not of my blood.”
“What is this fog you speak of?”
“It's as if a spell has been cast over them to mask their presence or their progress. It clouds their future. It’s a sinister thing — dark magic. From whence it came, I cannot tell. It makes me feel helpless.”
“Glim will be alright and he’ll look after Claradon. After all, you’ve trained our boy well, haven’t you?”
Landolyn looked surprised and searched her husband’s eyes.
“Did you think I didn’t know?” he said. “All those hours up in the south tower. You two disappeared over and again with little explanation. History lessons you claimed. Sometimes, mathematics. Then, for years it was lute practice. The boy can’t pluck a single note to save his life. How daft do you think I am? You’ve many talents, Landolyn, but lying has never been one of them.”
Landolyn’s mouth was open in surprise.
“You keep your grimoires, your baubles, and bunk in that tower. Locked in some closet marked winter undergarments or some such foolishness. Do you think I don’t know my own keep? I know its every crack and cobweb. You’ve kept nothing from me. It was magic you taught Glim up there, and little else. Trained him up right and proper in the olden magic of House Adonael.”
“And if I did?” she said, wincing.
“Then you’ve given him a better chance to live through what he and Claradon are facing. The magic they taught those boys at the Chapterhouse is no match for the olden stuff. I know that much. I taught him to use sword, dirk, and shield. You’ve armed him just as well, maybe better. You really didn’t think I knew?”
“I was certain you didn’t. I was sure you would never approve. You said you didn’t want him to be a wizard. You said you would never allow it. You threw a fit over it more than once when we talked of it.”
“I did. And so he’s not a wizard. He’s a knight, a warrior, born and bred. One of the best. And it just so happens he can also toss an old elvish spell or two when the need arises. How could I disapprove of that?”
She shook her head and smirked. “You’ve surprised me again, husband.”
“Then after all these years you’ve still more to learn about me, my love.” He leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips. She quivered at his touch, as she always did, her heart racing, then returned the kiss, passionately. Malvegil reached over and turned down the oil lamp beside the bed.
“Is there anything more you can tell me of the other dreams you’ve had the last few nights?” said Malvegil.
“I’ve gone over it a hundred times in my head and tried to remember more,” said Landolyn. “There just aren’t any details. All I know is that there’s an evil rising in the east, another in the south, and a third in the north. The portents are there, but things aren’t clear. Lomion is threatened on all sides, but perhaps the gravest threat is from within, as you well know.”
A knock came at their door, despite the early hour. It was Gravemare. He presented Lord Malvegil an official missive from Lomion City. Malvegil unfolded the note and read it slowly, more than once, before he spoke. “Harringgold summons me to Lomion City. He wants me to speak before the Council of Lords. He says Barusa of Alder is moving to amend the Articles of the Republic.”
“Can this be true?” said Landolyn, turning to Gravemare. “Can he do that?”
“The Articles have provisions for change, my Lady,” said Gravemare. “Any such document must allow for the people to amend it, as times warrant, though the core and spirit of the original must remain sacrosanct.”
“What changes do they intend?” said Landolyn. “And what does this mean for us?”
“Harringgold doesn’t say,” said Malvegil. “But anything Barusa is for can’t be good for the republic.”
“Could he get the votes?” said Landolyn. “Does he have that much support?”
“It must be close, or Harringgold wouldn’t ask this of me. He knows what happened the last time I was in the city. He must think I can sway enough votes to put down this measure.”
“If any man can, it’s you, dear.”
“There are others that can do this thing. He doesn’t need me.”
“I don’t understand,” said Landolyn. “You already decided to go to the city and to speak to the Lords. Why change your mind now?”
“That was when it was my idea. Now it's his. Now if I do it, it’s in response to a summons. Who does he think he is, summoning me to court?”
“He thinks he’s the arch-duke of the realm, Torbin, and one of your oldest friends.”
“I don’t like it. Let him speak to the Lords himself. As you said, he’s the Duke. Why should I do his job for him?”
“If I may, my Lord,” said Gravemare. “Harringgold is Barusa's chief rival in all things. Their two factions will line up against one another. Most of those not so aligned will abstain, just to keep out of the fray. Things have been like that for all too long as you well know. The man to persuade the Lords must be an outsider to the Lomerian Court. Despite your long friendship with the Duke, you will still fill that role in the eyes of many. The independent Lords may well follow you.”
“Aye, I know these things. I just don’t like to be told what to do. It doesn’t sit well in my stomach, not at all.”
“Torbin — Jhensezil is no talker; Sluug is a soldier, not a statesman. Mortise doesn’t have the charisma that you have. It must be you. There is no other.”
“Aye, it must be me. So much for making a surprise entrance. No doubt, all of Lomion City is already waiting for me on their stoops, a great party in full swing at the city gates.”
“The letter was sealed, my Lord, with the Duke’s crest, unbroken,” said Gravemare. “Its contents may yet remain secret.”
“Doubtful,” said Torbin. “This is not Harper’s hand,” he said, gesturing at the missive. “He must have dictated to one of his aide’s. Such men can be bought.”
“Then you must go in force,” said Landolyn. “A full brigade of our finest.”
“Two brigades,” said Gravemare. “It would take an army to waylay you with that many Malvegils at your side.”
“I can’t ride into Lomion City with a force like that.”
“Have them escort you to within sight of the walls, then proceed with a picked squadron,” said Gravemare.
Malvegil nodded. He paced the room for several minutes without a word. Landolyn and Gravemare stood waiting for some sign or statement. At last, he stopped before them. “I’ll leave in three days. Hubert — see that the men are ready, but keep close our plans.”
XVII
OLD ELVISH MAGIC
Ob jerked awake with a moan and bounced to his feet, scattering the collection of empty wine bottles beside his chair. Startled, Kayla nearly fell from her seat beside Claradon's sickbed. Ob winced and clutched his shoulder. Sweat formed on his brow.
“What happened?” said Kayla. “Are you alright?”
Artol, his face a bruised and swollen mess from his battle with DeBoors, reclined in a plush lounge chair beside a round table on the far side of the room. Glimador sat a similar chair nearby. They looked at Ob, his wine bottles, then each other, and shook their heads.
Ob ignored Kayla and paced the cabin floor, his breathing labored. All the while, he stared at his feet, rubbed his shoulder, and stretched his arm. “Something’s coming,” he said after a time, but whether to himself or the others, it wasn’t clear. “Some stinking thing. Not good at all.”
“What do you mean?” said Kayla. “What’s coming?”
Ob halted before the bed. His eyes lingered on his unconscious liege for a moment and then bored into Kayla. “You have a weapon, lass?”
Kayla shrank back — a confused look on her face. “I wouldn’t hurt him,” she said, an edge to her voice. “Why w
ould you even ask me that?”
“Have you got a weapon?” said Ob loudly, his face pale and careworn.
“I’ve got a knife,” she said as she pulled out a long, wood-handled blade from a bootstrap.
“Keep it close,” said Ob. He walked to the cabin’s door. “Something’s coming. I need all of you to keep alert. Be ready for anything and keep him safe. Lock the door behind me,” he said, exiting, his face filled with worry. “And bar it.”
“Where are you going?” said Artol.
“To get Mister Fancy Pants,” said Ob. “We’ll be needing his sword.”
“Is he drunk?” said Glimador as he bolted the door.
“No more than usual, I expect,” said Artol. “But when his short hairs start rising, something bad is about to happen. Best we be on our guard.”
***
Darg Tran walked the cargo deck’s gloomy hallway, dressed again in his seaman’s garb, and steered for the back stair. The Brigandir closely followed. Bire Cabinboy shadowed them, nervous and fidgeting.
Of a sudden, the door to the storage hold up ahead swung open and the distinctive voice of Bertha Smallbutt flooded the passage. “Did the crew nick it? Best you tell me now, for I’ll have your hide if you hold out on me.”
Darg froze — there was no time to slip out of sight. Several steps behind, Bire squeezed into a tiny, cleaning closet, though he turned immediately about and peeked out to see what went on.
Old Mock, a grizzled sea dog that had served with Slaayde for years stepped out of the hold, an annoyed expression on his face. “If the captain's stash got sampled, I would have heard, and I’ve heard nothing,” he said. Mock glanced but a moment at Darg, his attention consumed by the banshee at his back. The Brigandir nudged Darg forward. The navigator continued down the hall and tried to act natural.
Dwellers of the Deep (Harbinger of Doom Volume 4) Page 20