Weighty deeds weighed heavy on the grand weave of magic that populated the ether, inducing sorcerous waves that erupted in all directions — waves that carried information of import, sometimes esoteric, but often seemingly mundane. From time to time, these chaotic impulses of ethereal knowledge could be detected, captured, and interpreted by honest Seers of uncommon skill and by certain eldritch devices. Grandmaster Pipkorn, archmage of Lomion, possessed two such devices — the fabled Rings of the Magi, two of the original twenty forged by Grandmaster Talidousen in ancient times, rare and venerable hangers-on from days long lost yet more enlightened. One Pipkorn bore on his right ring finger, the other, recently gifted to Par Tanch Trinagal, House Wizard for the Eotrus.
Talidousen rings, as they were sometimes called, did not give up their knowledge freely. They yielded only to those that held a measure of mastery over them. Such masters always paid a weighty price for the privilege, and no one, save Talidousen himself, ever held greater mastery over the rings than did Pipkorn, for he had plumbed their depths for longer years than even he remembered. And so the magical weave communed with Pipkorn, shared secrets seldom spoken, whispered of forces that disturbed and influenced it, and hinted at those rare beings that plucked the weave’s fabric and unlocked its mysteries, whether they dwelled in the Tower of the Arcane, or a far-off land across the sea, or some forsaken, subterranean depth never visited by man. This afforded Pipkorn knowledge that others could never possess, though the ring was ever fickle, stingy, and vague in its offerings, as if it had a mind and purpose of its own. Nonetheless, with its knowledge came power, great power.
Pipkorn started when he felt the familiar tingle in his right ring finger that heralded some event of import; a reliable signal to perk up and pay heed or else risk regret. At such times, his Talidousen Ring would vibrate ever so slightly while at other more urgent times, it would oscillate so violently it emitted an audible buzzing and vibrated his arm to the elbow. When that happened, his finger, sometimes his entire hand, burned as if thrust into flame.
Thankfully, the latest vibrations were mild and caused but little discomfort. Too much danger was already afoot; Pipkorn had no interest in any of it boiling to a crisis just now, though he knew such was coming.
He polished the green gemstone with his fingers as he approached the ponderous marble font tucked in the alcove adjacent to his sleeping chamber. The font was the heaviest of the treasures he spirited from the Tower of the Arcane on the day of betrayal and secreted in this hidey-hole of exile — an ancient, foreboding stone structure that lacked the comforts and amenities of the Tower, but was functional, secure, and had thus far served him well.
Pipkorn was glad he had saved the font, despite the arduous efforts involved in secreting it and himself in this dark corner of the Southeast district of Lomion City, for the font had oft proved a useful tool over the years, and, strangely, he’d even grown rather fond of it. Years ago, after he had tired of polishing the silver font that then graced his laboratory, he commissioned a master stonemason out of Tarrows Hold, a rather tall dwarf with flaming red hair, arms as hard as tree trunks and near as thick, to carve the marble font for him to precise, though unnecessarily stringent specifications. An interesting character was the dwarf, a stonemason, soldier, brawler, adventurer, and artist, all rolled into one, though Pipkorn had no recollection of his name. The dwarf had done his work well, though he’d taken a full year in the effort. The font was cut in the shape of a large bowl; its interior carved along a precise curve, smooth and polished. How exactly he’d accomplished it remained a mystery. An ornate wood lid sat in a groove at the font’s rim and safeguarded its contents.
Pipkorn didn’t actually need the font. He could put the ring's gem up to his eye and see through it clear and crisp, though its view was narrow of field and lacked depth. The font provided an easier, more comfortable method for tapping the weave, and offered a much wider and more expansive view. Pipkorn had long ago resolved to employ a font whenever feasible and took to carrying a portable one on his travels, though none provided the clarity of the marble. In olden days, he filled it with clear water, until he discovered oil worked the better. He experimented with numerous oily concoctions, homemade, local, and exotic, both plain and scented of spirit and spice. For whatever reason, the pungent stuff worked best. His chosen brew was a clear, thick olive oil flavored of garlic and thyme, imported from Crondin, long considered the best on the continent. The oil made the image a bit clearer, the colors a bit deeper, brighter, and more lifelike, but it was sound that it most enhanced. It made voices as clear and loud as if one stood amidst the speakers. With the gem alone, they often sounded muffled and distant.
Though Pipkorn had worn the ring daily for years, no marks marred his finger when he pried it off, which was no easy task. The ring was snug, but by no means tight, yet it resisted removal until Pipkorn pulled, twisted, and turned it just so. Owing to some enchantment Pipkorn could not lift, a different combination of movements was required each time to get the ring off. This caused Pipkorn endless frustration because he had never deciphered the secret to predicting the next combination, and he had long ago given up trying. Finally, he got it off, but wondered what other secrets of old Talidousen’s ring still eluded him. He placed it gently into the font’s oil, near the center.
The ring floated, gemstone up, its glossy surface barely covered with the thinnest film of oil. Then the ring began to turn, to spin clockwise of its own accord, faster and faster until it hummed. The concentric ripples it created in the oil broke gently against the basin’s walls. Of a sudden, the oil’s surface grew indistinct. It blurred, then became opaque. When it suddenly clarified, Pipkorn gazed through a magical window to another place. Images appeared across the oil’s surface and sound issued from it. The ring had created a mystical connection to its twin borne on the finger of Par Tanch Trinagal. That connection secured, Pipkorn saw through Tanch’s eyes, heard with his ears, and to a limited extent, even knew his thoughts — all laid bare for Pipkorn’s perusal.
The air in the secret Temple of Hecate hung heavy and close and smelled of sweat and smoke. Who would have guessed that a grand hall of soaring ceiling, mahogany panels, and marbled floor that seated thousands hid below a dilapidated warehouse in the bowels of Southeast, the foulest district in the fair city of Lomion. Who would have guessed that untold thousands of Lomerians secretly worshipped the Chaos Lords of Nifleheim, praying to them as gods, and that those cultists had the resources to build such a place and the discipline to keep it secret. And keep it secret they must, for worship of the Chaos Lords had long been outlawed throughout the Kingdom of Lomion, owing to their adherents’ rumored penchant for human sacrifice and other foul practices.
Despite the ban, for years there had been rumors of chaos temples hidden somewhere in Lomion City. Most folks considered them tall tales, but Par Tanch knew better, for the wizards of the Tower of the Arcane whispered about them, and what tower wizards whispered of always held some truth. Such was the way of things.
Tanch envisioned the chaos temples as grimy hovels or dank dungeons manned by a handful of wretched lunatics, gibbering away, huddled in the dark, biting the heads from chickens. He never dreamed that the temple could be as this.
Beneath the massive, domed ceiling the faithful aligned shoulder to shoulder in innumerable rows; a sea of concealing cowls and blood-red robes. Thousands crowded the hall to hear Father Ginalli's booming sermon in worship of Azathoth, the one true god — long now absent from Midgaard, the world of man, long now residing in the outré realm of Nifleheim, only to return when man proved worthy, or so went one tale.
Ginalli, Azathoth’s high priest, stood at the lectern and read boldly from a thick, leather-bound tome of sacred scripture. Par Tanch didn't pay attention to the words; he didn't much care. He was never one for religion; if the black rites of those mad cultists could even be called religion. His back ached; his neck was stiff. He was tired and drained. He longed for the quiet comfort of his chambers at Dor Eotrus. That’s where he belonged, not in a den of madmen, and certainly not on some fool’s quest. He was no adventurer, no soldier, no war wizard. He was a simple man of simple needs and little ambition. He never wanted to be House Wizard for the Eotrus. It was a weighty mantle and a step in the spotlight that he had neither the nerves nor the stomach for. If Par Talbon and his apprentices hadn’t got themselves killed, he never would have been house wizard — he would have turned down the position, if somehow, it was ever offered, and it wouldn’t have been. It was Talbon’s fault he was in this mess. Damn him.
But after everything that happened, when Claradon asked him to take the position, how could he say no? They had been friends for years, since Claradon’s days at the Caradonian Chapterhouse in Lomion City. It was Claradon’s support alone that had persuaded Lord Aradon to take Tanch in after the Caradonians dismissed him. Without that opportunity, Tanch had no idea where he would have ended up — though wherever that was, it wouldn’t have been as good a life as he had in Dor Eotrus. He owed a debt to Claradon and his family that he could never repay. That’s why he was on this mission, to give back what little he could to the Eotrus for all they had done for him, though he was far out of his element. He yearned for their quest to come to a happy end and for things to return to normal, though he conceded they would never be normal again. They couldn’t be. Not after what they had been through. Not after the terrible losses they had borne.
As the service progressed, Ginalli's voice boomed louder and deeper, though he could have jabbered about the weather for all Tanch knew, staring at his feet and willing the ordeal over. Then it happened. A group of burly cultists emerged from the wings carrying a squirming, rotund man to the altar. They tied him down.
The tip of Father Ginalli's golden staff flared bright red, almost afire, as he leveled accusations of dubious merit against the man — Mr. Miscellaneous Merchant from Who-Cares-Where.
Tanch glanced at Lord Angle Theta. While intently watching the sermon, the big foreign knight tightly gripped the misshapen ankh that hung from a cord about his neck. That strange token glowed dimly in his grasp. Tanch noticed Theta's lips moving, subtly, as if he whispered to himself, and knew at once what went on. Sorcery — secret and dark, no doubt. But to what end?
Ginalli's voice grew still louder and demanded attention, though it echoed strangely, as if it came from within Tanch’s head, instead of without. Tanch lost all interest in Theta's magic or mischief, whatever it was, and felt compelled to focus his full attention on Ginalli’s rant against the merchant; the priest’s voice shrill, his eyes — the wild eyes of the fanatic.
Tanch's vision blurred; his hearing dimmed. He floated as if in a dream. He looked to his comrades: young Lord Claradon Eotrus, stalwart and true; Ob the gnome, his gruff Castellan; and Theta’s servant, the enigmatic simpleton, Dolan Silk. Each wore vacant expressions and slowly rocked back and forth, their eyes glazed over and watery.
Behind Ginalli appeared two Lords of Chaos, the very same creatures that crept from the mystical gateway lately opened in the Vermion Forest. One was called Mortach, a giant, living skeleton; an undead horror out of hell, loathsome and malevolent. The other, Gallis Korrgonn, the abomination that possessed the remains of Gabriel Garn, beloved weapons master of House Eotrus. Even as Tanch watched, Korrgonn's eyes began to glow golden and bright, and two horns erupted from his forehead. Tanch froze, his breath caught in his throat, the hairs rose on the back of his neck.
The seating area behind Korrgonn brightened, and the sinister, deformed, inhuman aspects of the Arkons of the League of Shadows came into Tanch’s view. Tanch shuddered and his head swam. It was all he could do not to scream; not to flee in terror from those cursed chambers. But the throng about him failed to stir; those sights of no alarm to them at all.
Through a murky haze and debilitating waves of dizziness Tanch cringed as Mortach’s long dagger plunged into the bound merchant and laid him open, throat to groin.
Even as Mortach and the priests collected the man's lifeblood in golden chalices to share with the faithful, guards dragged a long procession of bound and struggling citizens, men, women, and children, toward the sacrificial altar. Dead gods, they were mostly children; their eyes wide with fright. Tears streamed down their faces. Tanch’s stomach churned; bile rose in his throat. He wanted to save them, though he knew he could not. He wanted to call up every magic he knew — each cantrip, conjuration, and incantation, every spell and sorcery, but he dared not or else invite the merchant’s fate or worse. The masses of mad cultists would pull him down and tear him to shreds, and his comrades too. Even Theta could not survive here, so outnumbered. He wanted to run, but his legs betrayed him, weak and trembling. He could do naught but stare in horror as the cultists dragged the captives, one after another, to the sacrificial altar. Their piteous screams were stifled by rags the cultists stuffed in their mouths.
Even more shocking than those heinous sights was the crowd’s reaction to them. No cries of alarm; no shouts of protest; no shocked gasps. Instead, nods of approval; whispers of support; even a scattered smile and cheer. The wretches thought those murders right and proper. Truly a den of madness and monsters; the stuff of fevered nightmares. No place for any goodly man was that, though Tanch dared not flee, if even he could find the strength.
On instinct, Tanch mouthed words of protection; ancient words taught him by his old master. Mystical words of power from the old tongue of the Magus Mysterious carried down from the Dawn Age; words lost if ever known by normal men and each nigh unpronounceable. From deep within, he felt his arcane powers stir, and with a rush of adrenaline that made him shudder, his vision cleared, his mind calmed, and his tension ebbed.
It was as if he awoke from a dream; as if a veil lifted from his eyes, and a plug of wax was plucked from his ears. With this clarity, the scene before him suddenly changed. Now it appeared altogether different. Now Tanch saw it the way it truly was.
Mortach was no monster. His true face was handsome, almost perfect to behold, with long straight hair, black as pitch. His form, tall and lean, but powerful. Beside him, Korrgonn wore no stolen face, but his own. Even more beautiful than Mortach; his skin of golden tone; his eyes, a piercing blue; his body, tall and stately. Each chaos lord held an aura of majesty about them; a spark of the divine. With every breath, they exuded strength, wisdom, and power. These were more than mere mortals; they were holy messengers of the heavens, of paradise.
No blood dripped from the dagger Mortach held. The chalices were filled not of blood spilled from the captives’ chests, but of red wine poured over their brows. The merchant stood now beside the altar unharmed.
The gruesome blood sacrifices and all their trappings were merely a performance, an illusion — religious ritual, symbolism, ceremony, and such, nothing more. Nothing bad, nothing sinister. Not a scene of horror, not a march of madness.
Tanch knew now what had clouded his mind. It was Theta's magic; there was no other explanation. But why? He turned toward Theta—
—But now Tanch was back on the deck of The Black Falcon as it sailed down the Grand Hudsar River and passed through the Dead Fens. Wind lashed his face; freezing rain pummeled the deck; it was bitter cold.
The Einheriar battled Theta on the Bridge Deck. Its form was blurred and indistinct, but from what little Tanch could tell, it was a monster. A creature that perhaps was once a man, but was now corrupted, a mockery of humanity, a twisted, misshapen offense to life itself.
And there was Theta with his ankh that glowed with unholy fire. A gleaming mountain of muscle and steel, Theta floated just above the deck and glided hither and there, faster than any man could move.
Of a sudden, a strange beam of light emanated from Tanch's hand with a will of its own. He knew at once that the beam was his own spark of mana, a projection of the holy light of his immortal soul, enhanced by decades of mystic training, by his art.
The beam sped at Theta and engulfed the hellish glow of his preternatural ankh. The dark magic that powered the ankh resisted Tanch's light, but for a few moments, not long, but time enough, did Tanch's light hold mastery. It enwrapped the ankh and covered it. It suppressed its evil rays and dampened its unholy magic. It pulled back the veils of lies that it wove.
And while it did, the scene changed; the Einheriar changed; Theta changed.
The Einheriar was now no monster, no menace out of hell. He was a man, a warrior in gleaming armor, a long dagger in each hand. His brow noble; his expression determined, resolved. He and Theta taunted and threatened each other.
“I'm on god's side, deceiver,” said the Einheriar. “I've sworn to destroy all evil and destroy you, I will.”
“Dead gods, he is a holy warrior,” mumbled Tanch. Sent down by the gods to face the unfaceable, to struggle against the unconquerable, to die for the lord and for all that's good and holy in the world. How did Tanch not see that before? How was he so easily beguiled?
Tanch tried to look at Theta, to see his true face now that the veil of clouding magic had lifted, but he was paralyzed with fear. He had to know. He gathered all his will and courage and forced himself to look—
—But then he was in the ancient temple in the Vermion Forest the night Sir Gabriel died. A mind-rending din pounded against his ears, so loud, so utterly overwhelming.
Tanch saw the rear of the temple. There lurked its altar; a stark slab of gray stone, stained brown and red from untold sacrifices. Atop the altar, an orb of madness and mystery, blacker than death, a sphere of the outer realms that pulsed with forbidden powers and terrible temptations.
Behind the altar, the rear wall of the temple, embossed with a geometric pattern of flaming, melting, golden coins, shimmered, fluxed, and strained. It strove to tear open the fabric of the dimensions. The magic of that ancient orb was birthing a gateway — a dark portal to the realm of Nifleheim, a place of madness, chaos, and death. A breach that would join the two worlds in an unholy union of light and dark that would herald the end of civilization, the end of mankind. For when that gateway opened, the beasts from beyond, the demon hordes of hell, would gain passage into Midgaard to ravage the world of man.
Men struggled toward the rear of the temple as they strained against the unnatural cacophony; the nauseating mist; the bone-chilling cold; the flailing pseudopods, the very arms and claws of hell; sacrificing all to safeguard mankind and avenge their fallen liege. Each, a named man, a hero — armed with honor, clad in courage, and girded with honest steel, helm to boot, sword, dagger, and axe.
One amongst them plodded at the van and trudged through the murk where brave men faltered. Angle Theta, a shiny mountain of sculpted steel and determination, red-faced and sweating despite the chill, struggled forward, slowly, as if he pulled some vast weight. Every inch was a battle; every foot a war, as Theta strained against some unseen force, some power beyond the sight of man that held him back.
And then, for a fraction of a second, the bizarre scene grew even stranger when the cloud of deluding sorcery lifted from Tanch's eyes, and another reality, the true reality, flashed into view. Two Valkyries, holy sword-maidens of the gods, appeared from nowhere, blinking into existence. Each sat atop a white, winged steed that hovered aloft behind Theta. Each gripped a gleaming silver rope that was corded about Theta's cloak and shoulders. They labored to hold the juggernaut back, dragging at Theta's cloak with all their supernatural might.
Then they were gone: Valkyries, horses, and ropes; vanished from sight, though Theta struggled still.
The orb of darkness pulsed wildly on the altar and empowered the doorway to Abaddon, but the relic could not release the vast energies needed to drop the veil between the worlds.
For long moments, Theta trudged forward, his aspect blurred and obscured by the unnatural haze within the temple and the pounding din that assailed Tanch's ears. When at last he reached the altar, Tanch’s vision sharpened and cleared, and Theta's form changed. The Valkyries blinked back into view, and this time remained, still struggling in vain to pull Theta back. But he was Theta no longer. Now he was Thetan. Thetan, the evil; Thetan, the traitor; Thetan the fallen.
Tanch’s face became a twisted mask of shock and horror. He wanted to turn away, but he could not.
What had appeared to be Theta's great steel helm now was revealed to be two great horns that protruded from his forehead. What had been his cloak was really two great, black, leathery wings, like those of a giant bat. Theta's face sharpened and morphed — that protruding, boney jaw; the sharp, long nose and flared nostrils; the deep-set eyes; the muscular physique beyond that of any mortal; the reddish tinge to his skin. This was Thetan; Theta in his true form, revealed at last for what he truly was. A monster. The Prince of Lies, the Great Dragon, the Lord of Demons. Evil incarnate. The Harbinger of Doom. He who betrayed the Lord and was cast out from the heavens in time immemorial.
As Tanch watched in horror, Theta raised a great hammer and smashed the orb of darkness. It exploded on impact, and crackling streaks of deadly lightning flashed along the Valkyries' silver ropes and engulfed them. The brave sword-maidens and their valiant steeds screamed, burst into flame, and burned instantly to ash.
The orb's eerie energy, released in one titanic blast, powered the vestigial gateway, tore it open, and thereby created a gap in the fabric of reality — an unholy bridge between the worlds. Such had been long hoped for by those who lurked on its threshold for years beyond count. Their prayers answered, the demons of nightmare vaulted through in triumph. Thetan’s booming laughter shook the temple to its core.
Tanch felt himself falling; felt his world grow dim.
The mystical connection broke and Pipkorn staggered back from the marble font, his heart racing. “Dead gods,” he said.
Tanch sprang up and gasped for air. His heart pounded in his chest; his head throbbed; drenched in sweat; his hair plastered to his face; his shirt soaked through. For some moments, he knew not where or when he was. Soon his head cleared; his vision, sharpened.
He was in his bunk, off the Captain's Den, on The Black Falcon.
He was awake. A nightmare. He thanked the gods it was all just a nightmare.
Tanch rubbed his hands to stifle the nagging itch and persistent burning that plagued him since the very moment he’d thrown that great blast of fire on the docks of Tragoss Mor. He shuddered at the thought of it and the power that had coursed through him, a power not his alone, but born of the Ring of the Magi gifted him by Pipkorn and affixed evermore to his right hand. That ring, its very aspect alien, whispered of secrets best not known. The golden band cupped a singular, faceted, green stone that was no emerald, its true lineage unknown, its unplumbed depths at once afire and murky beyond man’s sight or reason. Tanch struggled to avoid thinking of the horrors that he'd seen in Tragoss Mor, of the death and suffering that he'd wrought. He had to block that from his mind, and distract himself with saner thoughts, but after that nightmare, sane thoughts were hard to find.
He pulled himself from bed, put on a clean shirt, and made his way to the Captain's Deck, still groggy and fatigued.
The guards admitted him into Claradon's stateroom without a word. There lay his young friend and liege; bloody bandages wrapped about his chest, looking much the same as he had the previous night. His face and skin were pale, deathly pale; his breathing shallow, but dear gods, he did still breathe, did still cling to life, where near any other man would've long since passed, his wounds so grievous.
The part-elven woman, Kayla, was at his side from the moment they carried him aboard. She tended to him however she could, though of what medical skills she had, if any, Tanch had no idea. The young knights Paldor and Glimador were there too, tired and forlorn. It was good that Glimador was there — he was Claradon’s oldest friend, not to mention his first cousin. If Claradon slipped away, at least one family member that loved him would be at his side to mark his passing and mourn him. Ob was there too, and he was practically family, though as Tanch expected, he was passed out in a chair beside the bed, a collection of wine bottles empty at his feet.
Dear gods, please let Claradon live.