The Chronicles of Caylen-Tor

by Byron A. Roberts

  At length, both men found themselves within a wide chamber strewn with fragments of ancient statuary and the cracked remnants of hoary stone tablets.

  Demetrius gestured to the eastern wall of the chamber where a jagged archway brooded in the shadows.

  “There!” he said, handing Caylen his burning brand. “Go, and may the gods protect you!” With that, he turned and hastened back up the narrow staircase.

  Securing his sword in its scabbard, Caylen slowly approached the graven arch. A set of dusty stone steps wound downward into the moldering darkness which roiled beyond the light of the guttering flame.

  “Looks like a blasted tomb,” muttered Caylen as he steadfastly began his descent into the black.

  Caylen shivered at the almost preternatural cold which swiftly enveloped him as he strode further into the chthonic depths, and for many minutes only the glow from his burning brand served to illumine his path. Finally, after what seemed an eternity traversing the gloomy tunnel, a gently undulating viridian light began to fill the narrow passageway and he emerged into a colossal, atramentous cavern. Gazing about the vast subterranean grotto, Caylen saw that a latticework of luminescent green veins had been incised into its smooth black walls in a pattern akin to an eldritch spider’s web. Whether the lucent filaments were a natural feature of the cave or the work of long dead artisans, Caylen could scarce fathom, but the slender furrows cast an eerily lambent glow throughout the darkling subterrane.

  Glancing downward, Caylen instantly descried the faded and cracked remnants of a vast mosaic which adorned the chamber’s riven floor. Suppressing a shudder, he noted that a series of patterns vaguely reminiscent of black wings and tentacles were partially visible upon the shattered tesserae tiles. “Best not to tarry here,” the clansman whispered to himself.

  Brandishing his torch, Caylen moved warily into the depths of the gloomy cavern. He had walked for no more than fifty yards before the partially obfuscated outline of a large structure loomed suddenly from the shadows before him. As he drew closer to the object, Caylen swiftly discerned that it was a mold-mottled shrine of ancient black stone. Jagged fragments of cloven walls and sundered pilasters jutted from the ruin’s foundations like the broken teeth of some primeval behemoth. Quickening his pace, Caylen swiftly closed the distance to the hoary edifice and at length found himself standing before a crumbling corbel arch flanked by the aphotic remnants of a great moss-encrusted wall. A deeply cracked lintel engraved with strange sigils crowned a yawning aperture in the ravaged structure, and Caylen crept closer to the rough-hewn doorway to peer beyond its tenebrous threshold.

  Gazing into the temple’s ruined interior, he saw that the majority of its roof had evidently long since collapsed, leaving a chaotic mass of basaltic rubble and granite shards strewn about a dank and mucid antechamber. Fragmented rays of viridescent light vied for dominance with the amorphous shadows which writhed blackly within the silent vault. In the centre of the room brooded a stygian aperture reminiscent of the maw of a large well, its slime-flecked perimeter delineated by countless cracked marble tiles. Beyond the gaping pit, Caylen instantly spied the altar of which General Kleitos had spoken. It was hewn from black stone, standing some seven feet in height, and its surface shimmered in the half-light as if covered by a coating of viscid slime. An array of intricate glyphs had been etched into the base of the altar, and a carving of some grotesque, squatting creature adorned a wide plinth at its pinnacle. As Caylen stepped closer, he discerned that the effigy boasted a disquieting amalgamation of both human and reptilian features, its body covered in graven scales and its gnarled hands sporting curved talons. The distended face of the carving was frozen in a toothsome rictus grin, and its black ophidian eyes glimmered balefully in mute malevolence. At the altar’s centre, set just below the vile statue’s clawed feet, was a small pedestal crowned by a single wedge-shaped jewel which glowed faintly with a wan, emerald light.

  With a start, Caylen suddenly became aware of a disquieting stench which hung heavy in the shrine’s foetid air; a noisome mixture of putrescence and mold-riddled decay. He took a tentative step forward and his foot struck something upon the blackened stone floor. Lowering his brand, Caylen saw that a twisted array of human remains lay scattered at his feet. The remnants of several ravaged arms littered the cavern, their mutilated tips rent and ragged as if torn or bitten from their torsos. A partially devoured leg sprawled close to the perimeter of the pit, its shattered bone jutting dreadfully from its lacerated and blood-encrusted flesh.

  “Looks like I’ve discovered the fate of your men, General,” muttered Caylen, his fingers slowly curling around the hilt of his sword.

  From the depths of the stygian pit there suddenly came a thunderous sound like the rushing of a great torrent, accompanied by a vile fetor as of rotting meat. Caylen stepped back swiftly and dragged his blade free of its scabbard.

  He then stood transfixed and mesmerized as a waking nightmare rose languidly from the miasmic well. The creature was bloated and amorphous, its pallid flesh translucent and glistening with muculent slime. It sported a score of undulating tentacles and in the centre of what passed for the beast’s membranous head, a slavering maw studded with countless hooked fangs pulsated obscenely.

  “By the gods!” Caylen hissed, casting down his brand and hefting his sword. “What an abomination!”

  The pit-fiend arced its tumescent head toward Caylen and a torrent of yellow ichor suddenly vomited forth from its loathsome mouth. The viscous, venomous liquid spattered Caylen’s blade, hissing and bubbling upon the surface of the coruscant steel. Instantly, Caylen drove his sword into the beast’s vile flesh and the honed edge bit deep into its quivering, excrescential bulk. A blossom of putrid, greenish blood erupted from its riven hide and the abhorrent thing shrieked in sibilant agony.

  “Ha!” roared Caylen triumphantly. “You bleed, devil! And if you bleed, you can die!”

  With a speed belying its great size the creature struck, clamping its hooked fangs into Caylen’s mail-clad arm. The withering stench of the fiend’s acrid breath assailed Caylen and white-hot pain lanced through his body. The beast’s great scimitar fangs sank deeper into his limb as its pallid, sinuous tentacles began to encoil the clansman in a vice-like grip.

  “No!” Caylen thundered. “I’ll not be fodder for you, demon!”

  With righteous rage, Caylen thrust his sword into the creature’s glistening skin, twisting the blade viciously. Plumes of smoke instantly began to billow from the behemoth’s head and it abruptly released its death-hold, its miry tentacles flailing furiously. Caylen immediately drove his sword upward into the beast’s gaping orifice, the blade piercing its gelatinous flesh to the hilt. With a resonant crack and a gout of noxious liquid, the sword’s point emerged slick and steaming from the top of the monster’s malformed, globose head. A great tremor ran through the thing’s feculent body and Caylen onerously dragged his befouled blade free of the glutinous mass. The fiend’s great bulk crashed against the perimeter of the well and Caylen swiftly leaped forward, sword poised. Summoning all his might, he savagely hacked three of the aberration’s sinewy tendrils from its mucilaginous body. Hot, viscid liquid gushed forth from the monster’s twitching bulk in bubbling torrents and the cloven tentacles tumbled gruesomely to the stone floor of the chamber, still writhing and threshing wildly. With a final horrisonant, ululating roar, the beast sank slowly back beyond the aphotic threshold of the well and disappeared into the abyssal depths.

  Drawing breath in ragged gasps, Caylen stumbled back from the edge of the pit and wiped flecks of slime from his eyes. Blood trickled freely from his arm where the creature’s teeth had sundered his chainmail, but he paid the wound no heed and stalked resolutely around the perimeter of the well until he stood before the black altar. The green jewel pulsed steadily with a lambent glow and Caylen slowly extended his hand, intending to lay hold of the gently glimmering crystal. Suddenly, the viridescent gem flared brightly, its multifaceted depths burnin
g with a searing emerald luminescence. Simultaneously, the veins of green energy etched deep into the cavern’s black walls blazed dazzlingly, illuminating the vast chamber with a fulgid radiance. Caylen retracted his hand and took a tentative step backward, hefting his slime-befouled blade. Then, to his astonishment, a fell voice abruptly emanated from the altar. The sound was a sibilant whisper akin to the slither of a serpent’s scales against flesh, and its eldritch rasp bore an edge of palpable malevolence.

  “Who dares stand before the serpent-stone of the Z’xulth? Who aspires to awaken the Ophidian Oracle?”

  Caylen lowered his blade and sighed exasperatedly. “So, you demand introductions, do you, spirit? So be it. I am Caylen of Clan Wolf, son of Culain-Ulvur, grandson of Black Vargr, the Iron Butcher of the Tundra. I am bleeding, covered in gore and damn well pressed for time, so let’s get on with it, shall we?”

  A moment of silence ensued, then the ghostly voice spoke again. “Ah, the scion of wolves, child of the northern moon! But what is this other scent which I detect about you? The blood of something else flows within your veins… something ancient and arcane, born of the sylvan realm and the primeval verdure of the ageless Forest King!”

  “I did not venture into this verminous tomb to maunder on about my ancestry,” said Caylen with a scowl. “I’ve divulged quite enough to you already, spectre!”

  “So be it,” hissed the spirit of the black altar, its timbre darkening with vexation. “Why do you disturb this sentinel’s slumber, O wolf-kin of the desolate heathland?”

  “To destroy my enemies,” growled Caylen. “No more, no less.”

  The tone of the rasping voice abruptly became deeper, its volume markedly increasing. “Long have we watched the ascent of your kind, bearing witness as you crawled from the primordial ooze and scrabbled desperately for survival upon this blighted sphere. Mewling spawn of the sea! Flaccid, fleshy aberrations subject to the cruel whims of the Star-Gods, slowly evolving to become the implacable foes of the ancient Serpent Kings! And now you stand as descendants of the First Ones, they who survived the Great Cataclysm and duly returned to the cold embrace of the abyssal oceans, or fled to their hoary vaults deep beneath the labyrinthine earth, there to be warmed by the ersatz light of their great Vril-sun! And ever you remain oblivious to the insidious threat of the Z’xulth, those baleful avatars who lurk and seethe beyond the threshold; the darksome overlords who ceaselessly seek to sunder the tenebrous shackles which bind them so that they may surge forth from the infernal outer-darkness to reclaim their rightful thrones throughout the cosmos!”

  “As I said, I’m pressed for time,” gnarred Caylen. “And now my patience wears thin. Pray get to the point.”

  “Man of the north, descendant of the ancient Ice-Kings, we see your destiny played out upon the empyreal tapestry of fate. Behold, the thrice-crowned king, wielder of the three-tongued serpent, breaker of armies, scourge of emperors, bane of the chaosphere and ruler of men! All hail Caylen-Tor, the Wolf of the North, enthroned not by birthright, but by blood and steel! Many foes shall be ranged against thee, wolf-king. Beware the dread demon who wears the skin of a prince! Beware the king of serpents who broods upon his black atoll! Beware the scion of the white witch who shall wreak vengeance against your progeny! Beware the immortal chaos-liege who slumbers in his tomb of ice!”

  “An enlightening prophecy indeed,” rumbled Caylen. “But will you do as I ask? The battle rages even now!”

  “Yes,” the voice hissed. “The power of this ophidian shrine shall smite those who strive and die for the fortress above. Your wars and the men who wage them are merely fleeting echoes in the abyssal void. Kings die and empires fall, their legacy fading beyond memory until only dust remains to be swept away by the heedless winds of time. Kingdoms of shadow, ruled only by ghosts.”

  “Mayhap you are right on that score, spirit!” thundered Caylen, raising his blade. “But I yet live, and as long as blood courses through my veins, ever shall I fight on!” And with that, Caylen brought his sword down upon the green crystal, shattering it into a thousand incandescent shards. Instantly, the viridescent veins within the walls of the cavern flickered and dimmed, their light guttering like a candle flame buffeted by the wind. Suddenly, the black tiles beneath Caylen’s feet commenced to tremble and small fragments of rock began to fall from the shadows above. A colossal grinding din then echoed throughout the chamber and Caylen heard the ominous sound of crumbling stone booming from the distant reaches beyond the shrine. “I have outstayed my welcome here,” he muttered, moving swiftly around the perimeter of the pit to gather up his still burning brand from the cave floor. Hefting the torch, Caylen sprinted from the ruined vault and back across the darkling grotto, jagged fragments of black rock crashing down all about him as he ran. And from the depths of the shrine, audible even above the tumult, the sound of malign, ethereal laughter followed him.

  Chapter VIII

  The Fall of Gul-Azlaan

  Caylen emerged from the arched doorway and surged headlong into the furious, flaying embrace of the sandstorm. Shielding his eyes against the maelstrom of stinging sand and dust, he cast down his brand and scrambled across the corpse-strewn courtyard. The fortress was in the grip of abject chaos. Vyrgothian and Imperial troops alike stumbled and lurched through the scouring tempest, heedless of all but the desire to escape the rage of the desert storm. Strangely, the ground beneath Caylen’s feet seemed to be shifting imperceptibly, akin to the surface of a placid lake disturbed by an errant breeze. Ceasing his flight momentarily, Caylen spat sand from his parched mouth and squinted painfully through the dark veil of dust. Small furrows and fissures had become visible in the courtyard’s flagstones, expanding rapidly like a latticework of cracks upon the face of a smitten looking glass. To his astonishment, he suddenly descried a familiar lambent green glow emanating from the ground between the growing fractures, and above even the mournful howl of the scouring wind and the din of battle, Caylen could clearly hear the baleful and ominous rumbling which had dogged his every step from the abyssal catacombs below.

  Suddenly, a hulking form loomed from the swirling sand and Caylen instantly raised his sword. A heartbeat later, he recognized the towering, dust-cloaked figure with its battered iron helm and blood-caked grey beard. “Haakon!”

  “Clansman!” boomed the gore-spattered reaver, laying hold of Caylen’s shoulder. “All hell has been loosed upon this fortress! The retreat has been sounded! I’m heading for the east wall!”

  Without another word, the two men sprinted desperately through the storm, leaping over fallen warriors as they made for the entrance to the bastion’s escape tunnels. After many harrowing moments of flight, they reached the fortified passageway. Several Vyrgothian troops were already rushing past the open, iron-clad gate, their swords still red from battle. Hefting his axe, Haakon vaulted across the threshold and into the shadows beyond. Caylen was poised to follow when an imperial swordsman suddenly surged from the stinging dust-clouds and barrelled into him, almost knocking him from his feet. Screaming an oath, the man spun blindly and swung his tulwar in a desperate arc which Caylen barely parried. Hammering his fist into the legionary’s jaw, Caylen swiftly drove his sword through the man’s lamellar cuirass and deep into his gut. The warrior’s legs buckled and Caylen dragged his blade free, stumbling over the fallen body. The thunderous din of rending stone suddenly resonated from above and Caylen peered anxiously through the billowing veil of sand to see a great fissure gaping upon the face of the embattled structure before him. A vast section of the eastern wall had begun to crumble and huge chunks of jagged granite were tumbling languorously earthward. With a final frantic leap, Caylen cleared the perimeter of the gate just as a colossal fragment of sundered stone crashed to calamitous ruin upon the sand, effectively sealing the entrance to the tunnel irrevocably. Gasping for breath and rubbing grains of sand from his stinging and red-rimmed eyes, Caylen stumbled into the darkness.

  Haakon emerged from the gloom and struck C
aylen roughly on the back. “Well played, lad,” he grinned. “I thought you dead for sure.”

  “I’m not so easy to kill,” Caylen rasped. “What happened to Viseth?”

  “I lost sight of him when the storm hit us. I expect the old goat found a way out. Or died. One or the other.”

  A Vyrgothian officer then strode from the shadows of the tunnel, bearing a flaming torch. “Follow me, and make haste. I can’t fathom why the earth trembles so, but if this passage collapses it will be our tomb!”

  Caylen and Haakon followed the man down the winding passageway as small fragments of stone tumbled ominously from the tunnel’s carven ceiling.

  “What of General Kleitos?” Caylen asked.

  “Dead,” the man replied tersely. “He led the final defence of the main gate. When the damned walls began to shake, he ordered the retreat. But he would not abandon the fortress. With a group of his oath-sworn officers, he fought until the end. I saw him fall, and by the gods he took more than a few of those imperial dogs with him!”

  Caylen sighed wearily. “How much farther?”

  “No more than a mile,” the Vyrgothian officer growled. “This passage merges with the caverns at the base of the eastern foothills. The survivors will be gathering there.”

  “Bloody imperials!” thundered Haakon. “They didn’t even send in the Ebon Tiger. I was looking forward to crossing blades with those preening bastards!”

  “As was I, to be honest,” replied Caylen.

  “And I never did find my brother in the fray. Mayhap he perished in the conflagration, if he was even there.”

  “Mayhap. If not, I’m sure your reunion will happen one day, old horse.”

  Haakon scowled. “The emperor must have unleashed some black sorcery to breach the walls in the end, I’ll wager.”

  “Aye,” muttered Caylen, his brow furrowing. “Black sorcery indeed.”

  The three men walked in silence for many long minutes, traversing the dark, narrow tunnel with trepidation. Eventually, the minacious tremors ceased, although the distant echo of crumbling stone persisted. At length, the passageway widened and they emerged into a large cavern illuminated by many burning torches. Some forty troops filled the darkling grotto and a score of wounded soldiers were sprawled upon the rocky floor, receiving the rudimentary ministrations of their comrades. Caylen recognized several mercenaries who wore the livery of the Company of the Crimson Falcon gathered close to the tunnel entrance, their haggard faces engraved as one with the same sombre countenance. He frowned as he realized that Captain Aegidius was not amongst them.