Gateway to Nifleheim

by Unknown

  A lonely figure manned the tiller at each boat’s stern, no rowers or crewmen in sight. Amidships of each was a small wooden platform upon which rested a body, richly dressed: garment, armor, and arms. Funeral boats were these, sailing into the afterlife, bearing the honored dead to Valhalla, though no pyre yet burned on either vessel.

  Claradon looked up and saw, amidst the clouds, Valkyries astride their winged steeds, circling overhead, their gazes fixed on the doomed boats below. Claradon strained to see the faces of the pilots and of the dead, and moved closer to get a better look.

  The armor of the dead man in the lead boat gleamed and sparkled so brightly that even in the diffuse light he had to squint to look at it, but he recognized the olden craftsmanship at once. The fallen warrior was his beloved father, his rugged face pale and sallow, hands crossed at his breast gripping his sword. Claradon’s worst fears had come to pass. His eyes filled with tears and his throat tightened; he could barely breathe. The man at the tiller turned toward Claradon. It was Sir Gabriel, tall and strong as ever, his eyes sad, his face forlorn. His sure and steady hand guided the boat past the rocks and through the rapids, safeguarding it along its journey.

  Claradon looked again at his father and realized his mistake. It was not Aradon Eotrus at all. It was Claradon's brother, Jude. His father and Jude looked much alike, despite Jude's youth and clean-shaven face. But how could this be? Jude was off in Lomion City, safe and sound at the Tyrian Chapterhouse. Dear gods, how could he be dead? His little brother, dead? Claradon’s heart wrenched in his chest. It cannot be. When he looked again at Sir Gabriel, Gabriel had changed. His eyes were all wrong. They gleamed with a golden tint; no, more than that, they were completely golden—no whites to them at all. His expression was uncharacteristic, as was his stance, and he kept looking over his shoulder at the trailing ship, as if it were chasing him. As if he feared it. Now his steering was chaotic and bold as he pulled the vessel in one direction and then the other. Up ahead, the river split—quiet and calm water to one side, and rapids leading to great falls to the other. Strangely, it seemed that Gabriel maneuvered the ship toward the falls and certain disaster, or was the second ship forcing him in that direction? It wasn’t clear. Confused, Claradon shook his head in dismay and forced himself to look away.

  Claradon looked back at the second boat. The boatman was wrapped in a dark cloak with a deep hood. He looked up at Claradon and there was no mistaking who it was. Lord Angle Theta guided the boat, subtlely nudging it this way and that as it made its way through the mist. Claradon looked down at that boat's fallen warrior and recognized the dress garment and armor at once. It was he—Claradon, dead atop the pyre. But how? When? It made no sense. Claradon made to call out to Theta, but the man at the tiller wasn't Theta after all. It was Claradon himself; he steered the boat, standing at the rear, yet he also lay on the pyre. He was at once in both positions, both alive and dead. It made no sense.

  Claradon felt himself falling.

  He opened his eyes to the dim light of the Dor's basement. He heard the men stirring from sleep outside his makeshift bedchamber.

  IX

  DOR EOTRUS

  A squad of guardsmen set out at dawn to reconnoiter, but the main group’s departure was postponed due to the night’s events. At midmorning, the expedition assembled in the shadow of the curtain wall near the inner bailey’s gates. The night’s chill was still in the air, though mercifully, the wretched wailing was hours gone. A throng of family, friends, and looky-loos gathered to see the expedition off and wish them well. Claradon stood by the portcullis, Ob, Gabriel, and Ector at his side, while the men adjusted their gear and said their goodbyes. Each knight was clad in battle armor polished to a sheen and impregnated with pigments: gold, silver, blue, or gray. Theirs wasn’t the old-style armor of link and chain that was long the staple in Midgaard, nor was it the newer, fashionable and lightweight plate armor churned out by Lomerian smiths for the kingdom’s guardsmen and the private soldiery of the nobility and prominent guildsmen. This was armor designed for the professional soldier—built for war, not pomp, pageantry, or tourney, though it was as ornate as any tooled for those tasks. It was frighteningly thick and strong, thorough in its coverage, and custom crafted to suit each man’s shape by master smiths in Dor Eotrus’s own forges. Few noble Houses boasted armor that could begin to compare. Heavy as it was, the knights moved freely in it. That was in some part due to their size and strength, characteristic of men of the northlands, as well as the ingenious design of the armor’s joints, which provided robust protection while barely limiting one’s reach and agility. The main reason, though, was that the Eotrus knights wore their armor daily as part of their ongoing training. For them, it was almost a second skin.

  Atop their armor, each man proudly wore the House colors on tabard, cloak, and cape, and the Eotrus sigil was prominently displayed across their tabards. Similarly, each man was equipped with a shield of oak and iron, emblazoned in blue and gold, with their own family’s sigil adorning the front. The matching armor, shields, and colors united them and identified them as a single force—as Eotrus men. Their weapons, however, held no such uniformity. Each man carried an array of death dealers of his own choosing that suited his skills, style, and tastes. Some favored lances, spears, or halberds; others, swords of one type or another; war hammers, great and small; one and two-handed axes; and crossbows of local make. And as instructed, each man girded one of Gabriel’s daggers to belt, ankle, or shoulder.

  The knights’ warhorses were tall and strong and of shaggy coats common to the large northern breeds, with colors ranging from chestnut to maroon. The grooms brought them out from the stables fully accoutered—their barding and colors matching their masters’ armor and garb.

  “If the kin of that creature—the reskalan or whatever Theta named it —is what hit our patrol, we’ve no more time to waste,” said Claradon. “We need to get out there and help them. Don’t you think we should call the men to order? We’ve got to get moving.”

  “Not just yet,” said Ob.

  Gabriel noticed the furrow that grew along Claradon’s brow as he stared at Ob, expecting some further word from him that did not come. “I know how you feel,” said Gabriel. “You want to rush out those gates and find your father as fast as can be, and you want to tear apart anyone or anything that has hurt him. I feel the same, and so do those knights, every last one of them. But they have loved ones too. We need to give them some time to say their goodbyes. We’ve got to respect that.”

  “Sending men off to battle is not the same as moving pieces on a gameboard, my boy,” said Ob. “Not by any stretch. Game tokens stand all lonesome, with no history, no future, and no connection to anyone or anything else. It’s not that way with real soldiers. A good leader must never forget that.”

  “Do you understand?” said Gabriel, looking to Claradon and Ector, in turn.

  They both nodded and said that they did.

  Sir Bilson’s wife and triplet daughters were all hugs and kisses and tears. Sir Erendin of Forndin Manor and his brothers, Sir Miden, and Sir Talbot were each embraced by their ladies fair. Sir Bareddal of Hanok Keep hugged his daughter of two, his wife sadly passed from the fever during the previous winter. Artol's entire brood came out to see him off—his petite wife, not five feet tall, and nearly a score of children ranging in age from two to twenty. Artol took the time for a hug and kiss or a handshake for each son and daughter. He looked each one in the eye and offered them his toothy smile and a brief word.

  “Artol’s two eldest boys petitioned me to take them along,” said Ob. “They made it hard to say no.”

  “They are both of age and skilled with a sword,” said Ector. “Why did you deny them?”

  “Ours is a job for veterans,” said Ob, “not eager boys.”

  “All the same,” said Gabriel to Ector, “they will serve you well while we’re gone, if it comes to it.”

  Sir Glimador Malvegil’s lady was there and did not go unnotice
d by the men. “She must have gotten up at dawn to get all fancied up like that,” said Ob. “And what for, I ask you? The girl is as beautiful as Sif or Freya themselves and with curves like an elven lass. What she needs with face paint and fancy gowns, I will never know.”

  “It’s part of her style,” said Claradon.

  “A merchant’s daughter doesn’t get betrothed to the heir of House Malvegil unless she is something special,” said Gabriel. “The Malvegils have only married other nobility as far back as anyone can remember.”

  “It’s her style and personality as much as her looks that won my uncle’s approval,” said Claradon.

  “Can’t fault Torbin for that,” said Ob. “I would not turn her away, I’m not ashamed to admit. But look at stinking Indigo. That boy has got no shame,” he said as they watched the young knight get swarmed by several maidens that nearly came to blows vying for his attentions. Indigo’s chiseled features, ready smile, extreme height and muscled build had ever made him the favorite of the ladies and he was never one to squander the opportunities so provided. “If he is fool enough to have more than one at once, he should at least keep them apart and secret like. Don’t you think?”

  “I think he likes to watch them fight,” said Ector.

  Ob considered that for a moment. “Might be something to that,” he said scratching his chin.

  A richly dressed middle-aged lady scowled at Indigo’s girls as she stood beside Sir Paldor and another man whose rumpled clothes indicated he had hastily been pulled from bed. “Paldor's parents,” said Ob. “Didn’t know they were here.”

  “They arrived the day before yesterday,” said Claradon. “Up from Lomion City on one of their quarterly visits. Sire Brondel would come with us if I let him—a good man.”

  “He is a good friend to your father, but a bit past his fighting days,” said Ob.

  “Out of practice,” said Gabriel, “if not too old.”

  “He knows it,” said Claradon, “and didn’t press me when I turned him down. He would have gone though, all the same. Brave man and a loyal friend.”

  “His wife dotes on Paldor as if he were the prized turkey at midsummer's feast,” said Ob. “Makes me want to puke.”

  “She’s proud her son is squire to Sir Gabriel,” said Ector. “What parent wouldn’t be?”

  “Old Sire Brondel,” said Gabriel. “He never approved of the assignment. Tried several times to convince Aradon and me to put an end to it, but I resisted. The boy has potential and he stands to gain more from the training I’m giving him. But Brondel says he is too old to be a squire. He says that a man full grown should stand on his own feet, and not serve another.”

  “There is a point there, on both sides, I suppose,” said Ob. “In any case, we best bring his boy back safe or his wife will have our heads.”

  “And what do I do if you don’t come back?” said Ector to Claradon, his voice sharp.

  Claradon sighed. “You prepare for a siege. You know how to do that.”

  “And you fight, if there’s fighting to do,” said Ob. “Sarbek will be at your side, along with a garrison of other good men like Marzdan and Balfin. You will not be on your own here.”

  “Sarbek is down with a fever,” said Ector. “Or else he would be riding out with you and you know it.”

  “He will recover, soon enough,” said Ob. “He's as strong as an ox, that one, despite his years. He will give you good council, should you need it.”

  “We should send a raven to the Tyrian Chapterhouse,” said Ector. “We’ve got to tell Jude and Malcolm what is going on.”

  “If you do that,” said Ob, “them two hotheads will fly all the way back here from Lomion City without taking a breath. They probably won’t even stop to pack or pee, or bring along anybody with them what can hold a sword. If we’re being invaded, they’re liable to run smack into the enemy. Then they will get themselves captured or killed dead. I will not have that, boy—not on my watch. There will be no ravens for them until we know what’s what.”

  “I agree,” said Gabriel.

  “They have a right to know what is going on,” said Ector.

  “Right now we don't know much of anything,” said Ob.

  “We know that father is missing,” said Ector. “That is what we need to tell them.”

  “You’re getting more willful by the day, sonny,” said Ob. “Maybe I should put you over my knee, as I did when you was a whelp. Maybe that will keep you in line and all respectful like.”

  “It didn’t work back then,” said Gabriel.

  Ob nodded. “As I recall it didn’t. We will tell your brothers what is going on just as soon as we know, and not before. Don’t even think about sending a raven to them after we’re gone—because I will have your hide if you do.”

  A little ways away across the courtyard, Theta and Dolan conversed quietly astride their horses. Dolan now looked little like a simple retainer, his aspect more akin to a veteran soldier or mercenary—donned as he was in a battered cuirass of brown and black-hued leather and equipped with a small arsenal of weaponry. He girded the well-oiled longsword sheathed at his side in the manner of a professional soldier, and the longbow engraved with strange pictograms that he carried over his shoulder was clearly often used. The hafts of several daggers protruded from sheaths at his boots and his shoulder.

  “After we've seen this business through, will we head back home?” said Dolan.

  Theta grunted, his meaning unclear.

  “We must be here for some reason, something big, more than just strange goings-on in some woods. We're not halfway around the world from home for just that.”

  Theta offered no response.

  “What do you expect we will find here?” said Dolan.

  Expressionless and even-toned, Theta replied, “Perhaps some world-eating monster or demon lord or ancient wyrm, but probably more reskalan or things akin to them, a lot more. It matters not, for I will put down whatever it be.”

  “I thought we took care of the last of them things already?”

  Theta ignored him.

  “Guess there are some more lurking about. Never liked lurkers.”

  “When we get going, ride up ahead and join the gnome,” said Theta. “Make sure he doesn’t stumble us into an ambush.”

  “Aye, boss, that I will.”

  “All right, you slackers,” bellowed Ob, “enough standing around. Check your weapons and secure your packs. We’re heading out forthwith.”

  ***

  Despite the circumstances, riding toward the main gates, which led to the Outer Dor, Claradon couldn't help but be impressed by the strength and majesty of the Dor itself. The twenty-foot thick outer and inner walls of the noble castle, crafted by master stonemasons, stood forty and sixty feet in height, respectively. Mammoth towers flanked the main gate and additional towers were situated at the four corners of both the outer and inner baileys. The towers' crenellated parapets partially obscured an array of large catapults and ballistae that fortified the roofs. Looking back, whence they came, he saw the enormous cylindrical tower in which his family resided. It was a magnificent work of engineering that approached two hundred fifty feet in height and included several majestic turrets and minarets that branched off from the primary tower.

  Claradon had ordered the Dor's forces to prepare to defend against a possible attack, and as they approached the main gate he saw that the preparations were well underway. Squads of men-at-arms guarded the entranceway and the barbican area beyond. Soldiers on the allures heated iron vats filled with oil and squads of crossbowmen stalked the battlements—all under the watchful eye of Sir Marzdan, a steely-eyed veteran and Watch Captain of the citadel’s outer gate.

  There was an unmistakable and pervading sense of doom that plagued the keep. Dor Eotrus had ever been a place of strength, peace, and security. Now all that had changed. Citizens dashed about, frightened looks etched on their faces. Many carried bundles of food or other supplies, stocking up for a feared siege; some
loaded wagons with all their worldly belongings, apparently preparing to flee the Dor for safer environs. Though where that could be, save for Lomion City herself, was not clear. Conversely, nearly all the residents from beyond the town walls had either taken refuge within the Outer Dor or were lined up outside the main gate to petition for sanctuary within the citadel. Claradon gave the gatemen leave to let in any and all that asked for refuge, for the Eotrus took care of their own. More than a few citizens noticed the heavily armed troop of knights and surmised their mission. Calls of support and “bring them back safe,” rang out from all around the citadel and throughout the Outer Dor as the knights rode by.

  The Outer Dor bustled with activity. Citizens scrambled to bar storm shutters, reinforce doors, and nail wood planks over the windows. The buildings were built of brick or stone, with walls at least double the thickness needed for stout defense against the northland’s punishing winters. Northerners had long memories. In the tradition of their ancestors who suffered through lugron raids, they built their buildings strong.

  “We're not properly provisioned for a siege,” said Ob. “Not when we’ve so many mouths to feed.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” said Claradon. “This may all blow over yet. It may be nothing.”

  “By Asgard, I hope you’re right,” said Ob.

  Just after they passed through the Outer Dor’s second gate, several riders in Eotrus livery approached at a canter from beyond the wall. Their leader, a grayed veteran, pulled up alongside Gabriel and Ob.

  “What news, Baret?” said Ob.

  Baret's face was grave. “We found no sign of his Lordship's patrol, Castellan. We rode as far as five leagues into the wood. We found the circle, but there was no sign or trace within it and not much without. It's hard to explain . . .” Baret looked warily about, leaned toward Ob, and lowered his voice. “Near the circle, the wood is dead. Lifeless. Unnatural like. The rest of the wood don’t feel right, neither. It stinks of sorcery to me.”