Threads of magic wove around the statues in the ancient lair of the great dragon Kulxak, dancing above the glowing streams of water to a haunting melody. They swirled and wove around the bodies of seven stoic figures; the statues of the Sten now stood fully complete upon the dragon’s dais. Glowing azure water gathered wherever snowy marble torsos and extremities joined together, so that they gleamed from every point of fluid articulation.

And they sang.

No sound came from their watery throats, but every stone in their glowing forms vibrated with a magic as old as blood and bone. They thrummed and hummed in a haunting melody of seven notes that repeated over and over as they regarded each other, one by one.

When their greetings were finished, they turned as one to the dragon on the dais. Kulxak craned her neck and bowed her head to the seven, and they bowed their heads to her. Her duty complete, the wounded dragon lay back down to rest, and the Sten, with slow purpose, began to walk along the glowing blue path set for them.

“The Sten, they were always so difficult. Stubborn!” Mannon said with the face of a bearded man. “When I needed some healthy competition amongst the gods’ peoples, I got half of ’em with some promises of advancement or glory, or even just a longer life. Most of the others came around once I made the Shadowkin look different. You can get good competition along any line you divide people by—open conflict too, if you’re lucky—and the more obvious a line the better. But the Sten… the Sten never wanted to play the game. Even when I made their kids into Trolls, they just… well, let’s say they couldn’t adapt to the changing times.”

Gorm’s mind reeled as world-shattering revelations lined up to dance past his mind’s eye. He was still struggling to reconcile the idea that Johan had been in league with evil incarnate, and now it sounded as though the people blamed for Mannon’s rise were the only ones to consistently resist the dark one’s corruption. The gods revered Mannon’s faithful servant… was Tandos the traitor god, and Al’Thadan innocent? It explained how Johan rose so fast within the Tandosian ranks after bargaining with the presence in the dungeon of Az’Anon. And it sounded like the statues beneath Wynspar, sealed away by prophecy, were somehow the key to the unholy alliance’s success.

The face of something warty and reptilian consumed Mannon’s active head. Its eyes stared at Gorm as it swallowed. “So I needed the Sten gone. And they almost are. It’s just some old statues, some ancient prophetic nonsense, some threads to be broken. And after that, you know, there’s really nothing else that can threaten my vision. I can stop hiding down here on the mortal planes, and go pay the holdout gods a visit. Maybe I make a few changes down here—get it a little more to my tastes—but believe me when I say Arth is almost there already. It’s so close. I am so close!” The last bit was rasped with fierce determination, and the reptilian face looked embarrassed by the outburst for a split second before the head of a skeletal bird swallowed it. “Johan and I worked so hard to get down there behind the barrier. I mean, you don’t know half of the planning and logistics you guys messed up with that stunt in the northern site. Your findings forced Johan to try out the prophecy cracker before it was ready, and when that failed we had to scrap the whole project—including the workers.”

“The Golden Dawn,” said Heraldin.

“Exactly,” gurgled Mannon. “I think they could have cracked it in another year or two if we didn’t have to change the timeline. But here we are, right? Barrier’s down, the Sten are exposed, should be easy to wrap things up. The only thing I need is a new partner to help, well, to help people adjust until I’m ready to reveal myself. Big opportunity for the right person.”

“We’ll never side with you!” Laruna snarled again.

“Yeah, most of you won’t,” agreed Mannon, his eye sockets still locked on Gorm. “I can’t have all five of you running around knowing my secret. It takes a lot of work to hide from the gods. A lot of magic, energy… it’s hard enough when just one person knows. It’s like they say, when you’re conquering the mortal realms, there are two kinds of people—useful subjects and loose ends. And sadly, four of you are loose ends. The question is, which one of you isn’t? It takes two to make a dark pact, folks. Who wants to get a deal done?”

Gorm didn’t glance at his companions; he didn’t have to. He knew their answer. “We ain’t bargaining,” he growled, trying to keep his voice steady despite his rising terror.

Mannon’s face looked as nonplussed as a bird skull can, but a moment later a smiling Halfling visage swallowed the face and took over. “Look, I get it,” he said. “Watching your friends die is a high price to pay. But consider what you get! One of you gets to walk out of here the hero who slew the mad king and stopped his insane scheming! You’ll be rich beyond riches, you’ll be revered by all. Whatever you want, it’ll be yours.”

The party was silent. Gorm glanced at his companions, looking to see if there was any plan that could get them out of this.

Jynn nodded toward the door. Should they run?

Gorm gave a slight shake of his head. They’d never make it to the hallway; all they’d manage is turning their backs on Mannon.

Laruna raised her eyebrows. Perhaps a fight?

Gorm winced. Mannon fought gods and entire armies in the legends. Five heroes didn’t stand much chance. They needed to retreat for now. He glanced over at Heraldin and Gaist, who were locked in their own pantomimed conversation.

Mannon squeezed his eyes shut and shook his many heads. “Okay, okay, look, after so many years trapped down here, my omniscience isn’t what it used to be, but I can still read faces, body language, maybe a bit of your minds. You’re planning. You’re trying to do that noble last stand thing. And I get it; you’re professionals and you have good habits and all that, but you’ve got to look at the big picture here. I’ve won. It’s done. One of you might as well reap the benefits.”

He turned to Gorm, and the Dwarf felt the stares of countless malicious eyes bearing down on him. “You! What do you want, Gorm Ingerson? Power? A place in your clan? Vindication for the last time we met? I can give it to you.”

“I want nothing ye can offer,” Gorm growled into the many faces of evil.

“Try me.”

“The people free and safe, justice for the downtrodden, and the rights of all people restored,” said Gorm.

Mannon’s multitude of eyes stared at him for a moment. “Yeah, not my thing,” he said, turning his gaze to the mages. “You! Wizard! What do you want?”

Jynn smirked and stepped forward. “The truth revealed, and the information used to govern fairly.”

“Funny,” growled Mannon. “What about you, pyromancer? You want power, right? Power I got!”

“To stand against oppression,” said Laruna, taking a step to bring her next to Jynn. “To serve the light. To⁠—”

“Yeah, I get it,” groused Mannon, now wearing the face of a snarling dog. “Maybe you’ll come around. What about…”

The dark lord turned his myriad eyes upon Gaist.

Gaist stared back with the stoic determination of a military statue.

“Yeah, never mind,” said Mannon. “But you!” The dog’s head broke into a happy grin as it turned to the bard. “You, Heraldin Strummons; you know all the pleasures this good world has to offer. What do you want?”

Heraldin stepped forward. “I want them to write a song about me.”

“Yeah? Fame? Fame I can do,” said Mannon. “We can work with this.”

Gorm started to shout to the bard, but a look from Gaist silenced the berserker.

“A whole ballad, at least sixteen verses.” Heraldin spoke in level tones as he walked toward the waiting maws of the demonic entity. “And make sure it’s one with an original tune, not some rehashed drinking song. No pan flutes.”

“Yeah, something with lutes and percussion.” Mannon stared at the approaching bard with the hungry gaze of a spider watching a curious fly. “That’s what you want. And people everywhere singing about you. We can get that going. And they’ll call it ‘the ballad of⁠—’”

“Zahat’emptor!” Heraldin shouted.

Gorm’s heart froze as the bard sprang into motion.

A head that was both like a frog and fish emerged from Mannon’s tar-ball body to consume the canine head, and in the distracted moment, Heraldin pulled something small and shimmering from the RED bag at his side. The Occult-Primed Arcane Oscillation Explosive gleamed briefly as Heraldin deftly twisted its core and hurled it at Mannon. The dog’s head looked surprised as the metallic sphere stuck in the tarry ooze of its forehead just before the frog-fish mouth closed over it.

“Run!” screamed Heraldin. “Tell them everything!” Yet he and the weaponsmaster ignored his own directive. Their weapons were drawn in futile bravado as Mannon reared up in fury at the betrayal.

Gaist darted forward, twin blades drawn, his slashing at a leg a graceful dance. Mannon countered with a thick vine of black thorns erupting from his bulk, a dark tentacle of the same sort that Gorm had seen kill Iheen in so many nightmares, and striking the weaponsmaster full in the chest.

“No!” shouted Heraldin, echoed by screams from the others. Mannon tossed the doppelganger’s limp form into the black pit at the center of the room, and all of his eyes rounded on the bard just as the explosion came.

Even contained within the body of evil incarnate, the OPAOE sent a shockwave rumbling through the room. The force of the blast expanded Mannon to twice his size, knocking Gorm from his feet. Bright green ooze and blue flames erupted from ruptures in the Felfather’s straining form. Every one of the thing’s foul mouths screamed in unison as it staggered and fell into the yawning black pit, its tentacles still clawing to keep it from plummeting the rest of the way down. Gorm saw one of them grab the bard and pull him toward the pit.

“Heraldin!” the Dwarf cried as he stood, but he felt a tug at his shoulder.

“Come on!” Laruna shouted. “We have to warn the city!”

The bard caught the very edge of the pit, gripping it desperately. His eyes caught Gorm’s as the Dwarf scrambled for the door, and Heraldin managed to put on a brave smile. “I hate being right,” he said, just before the tentacle ripped him from the edge and pulled him into the dark fathoms.

Chapter 32

“As in, all the way down,” said Sister Varia. “As deep as it goes. The sub-sub-basement.”