Xardok stared into the shimmering pool before him, the silver font glittering as the images moved within the water. His large, central eye twitched slightly as his agent—clad in black leather and wielding twin poisoned daggers—lept from the shadows and struck like a serpent at their target. As the poison took effect, Xardok sneered with satisfaction. Another job cleanly carried out, without complication. The images in the pool moved in closer on the target’s face as the last light of life left their eyes, and the agent affixed the insignia of the Nightvale to their lapel.
Xardok’s morbid fascination was interrupted then by a curt rapping on the door of the scrying chamber. The occuloid quickly dismissed the spell, and growled permission to enter. His trusted manservant Mal slunk in, footsteps silent against the smooth ray-carved stone. As he crossed the chamber Xardok appraised him, as was his unconscious habit whenever another creature entered his presence. Mal was an unusual creature. Broad of stature like a bull, yet stealthy as a cat. A man with a face so generic it was impossible to recall once it left your sight. A dangerous man. The kind Xardok prized. An asset to the Nightvale.
Mal stood uncomfortably under Xardok’s gaze. The scrutiny of the occuloid’s central eye never failed to unnerve him, even after years of service. He felt compelled to maintain eye contact with it, blocking out the darting eyes at the end of the squirming tentacles that orbited it. Silence crept into his bones like the cold—he knew not to speak until spoken to.
After he felt sure that this truly was Mal, Xardok growled, “The meeting, how did it play out?”
“As you predicted,” Mal replied. “Professor Warren accepted the maps without much comment, and offered further work.”
“For yourself?” Xardok asked, his body levitating through the air, turning the central eye away from Mal and to a collection of peculiar items on a nearby shelf. One wriggling tentacle eye stayed affixed to the man at all times.
“And others. A group of ‘discreet dungeoneers’, to quote the Professor.”
“He is no professor, fool,” snapped the occuloid, his mind racing, trying to decipher the plans of this new entity in his realm. “You will return to him and offer your services. Take half a dozen agents of your choosing. Humanoids all, we don’t want to reveal any more than we have to.”
“Of course,” Mal replied deferentially. “Incidentally, the man was a spellcaster as you suspected.”
Xardok nodded, or rather rotated vertically back and forth in an approximation of a nod.
“Take this with you,” he said, using an eye ray to levitate a glittering amulet from the shelf over to Mal, who reached out a meaty fist to take it, slipping it into the pocket of his cloak with surprising dexterity. “It will teleport you to a safehouse when smashed. Use it only if you are about to be slain, Mal. Don’t waste it.”
“Thank you,” the human replied, a touch surprised by his master’s benevolence.
“Assist this professor,” Xardok spat out the word with scorn, “and report back whenever you can. I want to know what he seeks in the Vastglen. Once we know that, we can take it for ourselves and dispose of the errant academic. Leave now.”
Mal turned on his heel and slipped out of the chamber. He was a useful tool, Xardok reflected, though his mind was primarily occupied with the riddle of the academic’s desires. He drifted back toward the font as the water within began to shimmer once more and an image of Mal striding through the corridors of the headquarters coalesced within. What new secret did the Vastglen hold?