The din grew worse, and soon even Ob staggered and fell, spitting curses all the while—his sensitive gnomish ears being particularly susceptible to the horrid sounds despite two earfuls of wax.
Claradon focused his concentration as best he could, and through chattering teeth bespoke mystical words—words taught him by the lore masters of the Caradonian Knights—words that called forth the power of Odin. A brilliant white light appeared and encompassed him. What generated the light could not be seen—it simply manifested all around him. It bathed him in its glow and made his clothing and armor appear pure white in hue, though strangely, it had no effect on the look of his skin. This mantle of holy light diminished the deafening sounds and the spatial distortions that occurred directly around him, and safeguarded him from the claws and fangs of any creature of Nifleheim that appeared. Alas, his power was not nearly great enough to encompass and aid his comrades. If he had only practiced more, he might have been able to cloak a few others as well—but only a few. Even the grandmaster of the Caradonians didn’t have the power to cloak the entire company. Already weakened, he could do little more than hold his ground. He flexed his fingers repeatedly, trying to shake off the sharp, stinging sensation that always came with the magic. It took a few minutes to wear off in the best of times, but flexing his fingers tended to help. Why it affected his hands he never understood, as the magic he had thrown was powered only by words and not by esoteric gestures. Regardless, his hands always stung after throwing magic—that was just the way of things.
At the far end of the hall, Claradon spied the temple's adytum—a black stone table, an unholy altar, no doubt, to the foulest fiends of Nifleheim. Its surface was covered in deep, reddish stains; the dried blood of untold innocents, spilled to sate the unquenchable thirsts of unspeakable, outré beings.
Behind the altar, the rear wall of the temple was embossed with a strange pattern of circles within circles. At the pattern's center was a gaping black hole of nothingness: a void. To where it led, man was surely not meant to fathom. The radius of each circle was twice that of the circle within it. The lines that formed the five innermost circles were blackened and charred, as if they had burned away; only moldering gray ash remained. Within these circles, inscribed in a dark-red pigment—which surely was human blood—were all manner of arcane runes and eldritch symbols from the bizarre lexicon of otherworldly fiends, forgotten gods, or mad archmages.
The sixth or outermost circle glowed and burned a fiery red; the very flames of hell danced and writhed on its unholy surface. Evenly spaced between the fifth and sixth circles were golden coins that looked like those they found buried at the desolate zone’s rim. Surely, when the sixth circle burned away, there would be no holding back the infernal tide that was to come—the very armies of insanity and chaos, the maleficent denizens of the pit: the spawn of Nifleheim.
Even now, the rear wall, etched with the unholy pattern, bulged and flexed and flowed, ready to burst from the pressure of some massive monstrosities that strained against its far side. In moments, they would burst through, and the beasts from beyond would roam Midgaard once again and usher in mankind's doom.
Sir Gabriel pressed on toward the black altar. Artol soldiered through the maddening chaos, perhaps somewhat protected by his earplugs and thickly padded steel helm, if not his thick skull, but blood flowed freely from his nose, mouth, and even his eyes. Sir Miden staggered just behind them and valiantly tried to press forward, though blood gushed from his nose and mouth and ears. He hadn’t stuffed his ears with wax like most of the others, and now it was too late. Overcome by the pain, Miden dropped his sword and shield, ripped off his helm, and pressed his hands to his ears to stave off the intolerable sounds and pressure. Just as he seemed to recover and bent over to retrieve his sword, his entire head erupted in fountains of blood that spouted from his ears and nose. His body swayed for a moment and then collapsed in a lifeless heap.
Claradon forced himself to look away and tapped his reserves of strength—that well of mystical energy from which sprang his magics. He couldn’t imagine any way to survive that place, but he had to try, and so he threw more energy into the mystical mantle that shielded him. He felt all his power surging through it, shielding him better than wood or metal ever could. Yet it felt a puny defense. He felt vulnerable and weak, more so than he ever had in all his life.
Witnessing Sir Miden's fate, several knights turned and fled the temple in terror. Their loyalty to House Eotrus was without question, but that madness was too much. There were no enemies to smite there, no honor or glory to be gained, no vengeance to be had, only mindless suffering and senseless death. They'd had enough. They fled. A few even dropped their weapons or shields in their haste to escape. Ob's shouted commands and curses went unheard and unheeded in the chaotic din.
Claradon watched them flee. He wasn't angry with them. How could he be? He wanted to flee too, but he wouldn't. He looked at the others struggle forward, pushing on with all their strength. He hoped they would all turn and run so that he could too. No one could fault him for running if everyone else ran first. But Gabriel would never run. He didn't think Theta would either, though he wasn't certain why, since he barely knew the man. But if they didn't, he couldn't. He wouldn't. He could never live with the shame of it-with the dishonor that it would bring to his House and to his father's memory. He would stay and fight. He would seek his rightful vengeance, though he felt that Tanch was right-that place would be the death of him, the death of them all.
Theta seemed less affected by the evil phenomenon than were the others. No blood flowed from him and his eyes remained focused. How and why that was, Claradon couldn't imagine. Theta's face, however, turned bright red and his stride slowed nearly to a crawl. He trudged forward in slow motion, several yards ahead of Gabriel, laboring as if he dragged a great weight behind him or something powerful but unseen sought to hold him back. This went on for some time, until at last he reached the altar and the source of the temple's power.
A small orb of utter blackness and purest evil lurked atop the altar's ebony slab. You couldn't so much as see it, as see the absence of it-a sphere of nothingness. What that thing was and where it came from: unknown. Theta must have known it was the foul emanations of that unholy artifact that fueled the chaos about him. It was its power that threatened to open the gateway to the unspeakable outré realms-the very Halls of Nifleheim.
Theta pulled from his belt a war hammer that had been concealed behind his cloak-and no common hammer was it. It had a large head of gray steel and an ornate handle inscribed with archaic runes and studded with jewels. How a man even Theta's size could wield such a thing, Claradon couldn't grasp-it was a battle hammer fit for Thor himself. Theta gripped the haft with both hands and raised the hammer high. Strangely, the hammer's head seemed to grow to more than double its normal size and mass as he lifted it up. He swung it down at the orb with all his might, and as he did, several things happened, nearly at once, in what order, none could ever say.
The hammer struck with a booming sound akin to a thunderclap, which was immediately followed by an eerie, otherworldly groaning that heralded the orb's destruction.
Just before-or perhaps just after-the hammer hit home, the temple's rear wall exploded outward and a massive blast of air and heat roared into the place. Theta turned as if to run, but the blast crashed into him and hurtled him some forty feet before it slammed him to the unyielding stone slab. Momentum propelled him several yards farther before it mercifully released him. Though Theta surely took the brunt of the force, the blast knocked the entire expedition from its feet.
Atop the altar, the orb was no more: Theta's blow had pulverized it. The altar itself was cracked (broken by Theta's blow), and a large chunk of its top was gone-pulverized along with the orb.
Claradon looked over in shock at Theta's still form. Then he saw the six-foot wide rift in the temple's rear wall-a rift opened by the explosion that they had just weathered. Beyond the rift was utter bla
ckness, a portal to some other place, some other dimension-some foul bastion of chaos. The portal's rim was aglow with wisps of yellow fire, their origin unknown. On the wall nearby, the arcane pattern's outermost circle was gone-its crimson border now nothing more than blackened and charred ash. The eldritch coins had melted and their remnants trickled down the shattered wall in golden rivulets.
XVI
THE BOGEYMEN
From out of that ominous hole in the temple’s back wall, which proved indeed to be a gateway, vaulted a monster the like of which Claradon had never seen before, and until that very moment did not truly believe existed. It was an otherworldly creature of nightmare, of folklore; the very bogeyman of the children's tales come to life. A horrid caricature of a man: no flesh covered any part of the seven-foot tall creature's oversized skull. Its large, gold, glowing eyes and long, forked tongue were alight with demonic flame. It wore strange black armor that clung tightly to its muscular torso. In its right hand it held a six-foot long, white sword whose blade danced with red and yellow hellfire. On its massive breastplate was damasked the unmistakable symbol of Mortach, Lord of Nifleheim and mythical patron of death and destruction. Surely, any mortal who stood against that fiend would be tossed aside like so much chaff. Before Claradon or his men gained their feet, the creature sped through the hall, fiendishly laughing, and bounded out the entry—out into the world of man.
The unnatural pressure was gone and the earsplitting cacophony subsided. The writhing pseudopods and tentacles retreated, and the walls and columns returned to their normal, stony aspects. Waves of heat and the noxious scent of brimstone filled the air. It came from the abyss beyond the breach and pulsed into the temple in waves—as if the portal breathed. With those waves wafted a strong putrescence mixed with the bestial odor detected before, only it was stronger now, but still unidentifiable.
While those knights who were conscious staggered to their feet, coughing and gasping, Claradon gazed in disbelief as more unspeakable horrors manifested at the gateway. They rose through the rarefied ether of the abyss beyond the portal by some bizarre means of locomotion incomprehensible to man. Several nightmarish creatures more than six feet tall and roughly human shaped vaulted through the breach and entered the unholy temple. Their appearance was too monstrous, too ghastly to describe or even contemplate. No mortal creature ever possessed an aspect of such indescribable horror, such loathsome, abominable evil. Claradon shuddered as he looked upon faces of pure chaos—the putrid spawn of cursed Nifleheim. As horrific as they were, they were beings of flesh and blood and sinew; Claradon and his comrades knew how to deal with such things.
Claradon, Sir Conrad, and Sir Martin were the first to rush forward, yelling battle cries in honor of their patron gods: Odin, Tyr, and Heimdall. By the time they approached the gateway, an even more formidable being had pushed the ghastly fiends aside. It was nearly eight feet tall and covered from head to toe with sharpened, metallic spikes, though the spikes were no suit of armor: they grew from its thick leathery hide. It was brick-red in color throughout, except for its large eyes, which glowed a brilliant gold.
Claradon saw many more loathsome beasts behind the spiked giant, including many kin of the reskalan. They pushed forward and strove to gain entry to the world of man, though none dared touch their leader. Verily, a veritable horde of hell spewed forth from that malefic gateway to Abaddon. The spiked giant brandished a huge black sword and pointed it at the three knights.
“Bow down,” it roared in the common speech of man, in a deep voice with a harsh accent. Its words dropped in spurts from its tongue—as if it struggled to form them with parts not meant for mortal speech.
“Bow down, petty creatures, and pledge allegiance to Lord Gallis Korrgonn, Prince of Nifleheim and son of almighty Azathoth. Bow down and swear fealty to me, and I may yet spare your pathetic lives.”
Claradon's whole body shuddered and quaked at the sight and sound of that unspeakable nightmarish thing. He felt puny and naked. A paralysis washed over him and rooted him in place. He knew he was about to die. A Lord of Nifleheim was about to annihilate him.
He wanted to run. He wanted to hide. He wanted to scream. If he just bowed down, perhaps he might yet live. Such a little thing it would be, just to bow down. He could do that, couldn't he, to save his life? What harm would it do?
He remembered his father. He remembered what those monsters did to him. He remembered his burning need for vengeance.
He did not bow down—he would never bow down before any creature of Nifleheim or any servant of evil. That would go against all he stood for and everything it meant to be an Eotrus. He would have his vengeance.
“I am Brother Claradon Eotrus, Lord of Dor Eotrus,” he shouted. “You killed my father: for this you die.”
Claradon charged forward. From the corners of his eyes, he saw that his two comrades were still with him. The smaller fiends sprang forward and interposed themselves between their dark lord and the knights.
“Very well, petty creatures,” shouted Korrgonn. “Tonight, we feast on your souls. This world is ours now.”
The knights engaged the fiends and fought with incredible ferocity—their swords and strength against the claws and fangs of the hellish spawn of Nifleheim. Outnumbered, the fiends pressed them back, away from the gateway and away from Korrgonn. The fiends' attacks were poorly coordinated—chaotic and wild—but these were no mere beasts, they were creatures of intelligence and self-awareness.
Through the whirl of battle, Claradon was cut off from his comrades and fought on alone. The mantle of holy light that enshrouded him, blinded the fiends and they shrank from it, wailing. It burned them—their very flesh smoking and charring as they drew near him. Many turned from him and sought easier prey. That gave him a singular advantage in the wild melee and perhaps was all that preserved his life. It also allowed him brief moments of respite during which he caught glimpses of the deadly struggles that unfolded around him.
Numerous devils attacked his still dazed or unconscious comrades and others fought duels to the death with the knights that still stood.
He saw Sir Bilson's throat ripped out by one fiend—dear gods, how would he tell his wife, his poor children?
Young Sir Paldor's chest was slashed by another. A terrible, metallic rending sound rang out as the creature’s claws raked across and shredded his breastplate, though the brave knight fought on.
Two fiends decapitated another knight and feasted on his corpse—ripping off large chunks of flesh with their bare teeth. Thank the gods, Claradon couldn’t tell who it was—he didn’t want to know; he couldn’t bear it.
Through the dim light, Claradon spied Sirs Conrad and Martin, awash with blood and gore, pulled down and torn limb from limb by a group of bloodthirsty, reskalan fiends.
Then he saw Ob, fighting alone, darting here and there, evading the claws of the beasts, and no doubt cursing all the while as several fiends stalked his heels. It pained Claradon that he could do nothing to aid his comrades. It was all he could do just to stay alive in the wild melee.
Tanch opened his eyes and, before he had time to think better of it, pulled himself to a sitting position. The battle raged on all around him. Blood dripped from his nose and his vision was blurred. The bloody corpse of a fiend lay across his legs—how it got there, he never knew. It was drenched in putrid ichor that soaked through his pants and stung his legs, burning like acid. The smell of it was so foul; it was all he could do not to retch.
Just to his left lay the body of one of Dor Eotrus's knights, his ribcage splayed open, heart torn from his chest. Tanch forced himself to look away. He dared not look at the dead man’s face. He knew these men, every one. Some more than others. Some few were close friends, or at least he considered them so, though they might not have said the same. If it were one of those—one of his friends—he knew he would break down; he would lose focus, and that would be his doom. But then he looked anyway. He couldn’t stop himself. He had to know who it was.<
br />
He cringed in horror at what he saw—the man’s nose and at least one of his eyes was gone. All the flesh was gone from his cheeks and chin. His teeth broken or missing. A red mess of bone and ruin. There was no hope to recognize him, to know who he was, but at that moment, Tanch thanked the gods for that. It was easier not knowing.
A few feet away, Ob desperately fought against two fiends; several others lay dead at his feet. Ob held a sword in one hand (long for him, but a short sword for a man of mundane stature), a glowing dagger in the other. How small he was compared to the fiends, yet it didn’t seem to matter—their lower quarters being that much easier for him to attack. He spun a wild dance of death. He whirled, weaved, and darted to and fro in a manner impossible to believe for one of his age and stature. Tanch was shocked to see that the gnome’s prowess was not exaggerated after all—as he had always presumed.
Tanch looked on as Ob thrust his sword through the breast of a fiend, but the blade held fast when he tried to pull it out. As he struggled to free it, he buried his short blade in the second fiend's breast. It screamed as the glowing dagger entered its body; its flesh smoked and sizzled as if set afire. From out of nowhere, a third fiend appeared and clamped its devilish jaws deep into Ob's forearm, and bit through chainmail, shirt, and flesh with dagger-like teeth.
Ob wailed in agony but managed to stab the thing in the throat with his dagger. The beast fell back, shrieking and spouted steaming black ichor from its neck. Ob slumped back against one of the pillars and struggled to wrap a cloth about his injured arm, to stem the flow of his lifeblood. While Tanch watched in horror, a six-legged fiend with a vaguely batrachian aspect pounced on the tiny man. Par Tanch had only a moment to act.
“By the Shards of Pythagoras, gek paipcm ficcg,” said Par Tanch in an accent that made his voice sound foreign, almost unrecognizable. Six fist-sized spheres of blue fire appeared in the wizard's hand, one after another, and shot at the vile demon in rapid succession—all too fast for the beast to react. The first bored into its left shoulder and exploded; the second detonated a few inches lower and blasted off the limb entirely. The third, fourth, and fifth spheres punctured the creature's side and chest; the last blew a large chunk out of its bulbous head. Its corpse collapsed at Ob's feet even as more fiends moved toward him.
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