“Mikel, after all these ages,” said Theta. “After all you have seen, all the pain and suffering you have caused, do you still truly think you are on the side of right and truth and justice?”
“I am on the side of Azathoth—as I always have been and ever will be,” said Mortach. “I ask you one last time before I send you to your fate: why did you betray us?”
“Because Azathoth went mad. Because Azathoth became twisted and corrupt.” Theta's voice rose and nearly shook the building. “Because he commanded me to do things for which I will ever be ashamed. Because his wickedness corrupted the Arkons and blinded us all. Even now you walk in a fog. By all that is holy, have you looked at yourself? Have you looked at what you have become? You are a monster—a thing.”
“Tis you who walk in a fog, Thetan. I hoped that there was still some remnant of goodness in you, however small. I hoped that I could reason with you and bring you back to the Lord, but you are lost, Thetan. There is no saving you; I see that now.” There was no flesh upon Mortach's face to read, but his voice harbored hesitation, and even fear. “I regret this reunion can only end one way,” he said, raising his blade in salute, “by the old way of the sword.”
“So be it,” said Theta.
“My powers have grown,” said Mortach, “far beyond your ken. And for all your long years, you are still but a man, nothing more. You are no match for me.”
Theta grinned. “Then come forward, Mikel, and show me your quality.”
Mortach made no move forward. “Even if you slay me, Thetan, this will not be over. You will not be free. You will never be safe; never be at peace. The Arkons will come for you and there will be nowhere to hide. You will pay for driving the Lord from us. You will be haunted and hunted down through all the years. And you will be alone.”
“With Gabriel's passing, you are the last of the fallen. You stand alone. You will die, Thetan—and the Arkons will lay your corpse upon the holy altar of Haerg, and we will devour your soul.”
“No, brother. Your brethren will not come for me. I will come for them. I will kill them all. Every one. Know too that Azathoth did not abandon you, brother. He is gone from the world for one reason and one reason only: because I killed him and cut out his black heart.”
Mortach's eyes grew wide and he momentarily froze. Theta leaped toward him, blade burning bright.
Ob pressed against the far side of the steel portal, seeing nothing of the scene beyond, but hearing every word, every movement, every breath. A quick advance; a loud howl followed by maneuvering booted feet, and a clash of steel louder than Ob had ever heard. Blows of incalculable, titanic force followed one upon another at speeds incredible for rapiers or foils, but these were heavy battle blades. How the blades themselves survived the clash, unknown. On and on it went; a duel for the ages. Finally, a series of blows struck flesh and severed bone; fountains of blood erupted from some mortal wound (all sounds that Ob knew all too well and could never mistake). A crash. One was down. One was dead.
Ob backpedaled from the building, too afraid to remain at the door, too stunned to run. He squatted some feet from the door, straining to hear any sound from within, poised to flee, but he couldn't flee—he had to know which one yet lived.
Some moments passed, and then Ob's courage returned and his curiosity moved his ear again to the door. Sweat dripped down his brow just as a mighty blow from within struck the door and sent him reeling. Ob crashed to the ground, rolled, and was on his feet in an instant. A second blow battered the door, bending and bulging the heavy plate in its frame. Ob had seen enough. He could not take the chance that it was Mortach that lived. He had to get clear. He turned and fled to a darkened alley across the way and dove behind some crates.
A series of titanic blows struck the door and crushed it ever outward. Finally, it burst free and crashed down, blasted from its hinges. A figure stood shadowed in the doorway for some seconds, then stepped outside.
Theta. It was Theta. He stood straight and tall, chin high, and looked up and down the way, holding his massive battle hammer in his left hand. No one was about. A large sack dangled from his right hand, filled of something rather large, rather round. Theta walked to the alley in which Ob hid, looking this way and that as he went. Ob remained hidden—having heard what he heard, he was too frightened to move. When Theta reached the alley, he staggered against the wall, then turned and slumped down—his back against the hard stone. He groaned with pain and slumped over unmoving for some time.
Ob was rooted, frozen. He could not believe what he had heard. Theta is he who cannot be named; Theta is the Slayer, the Bogeyman, the Widowmaker, the Harbinger of Doom, the Prince of Lies, The Great Dragon, the Traitor. How could that be? Is he truly evil? Can the legends be wrong? Would Theta let him live? Ob dared make no sound. He could barely breathe.
Dear gods, thought Ob. Theta said that he killed Azathoth. It had to be a boast—a distraction—a subterfuge—to unbalance Mortach and give Theta the edge he needed against that monstrosity. But could it be true? It would explain Azathoth's disappearance from the world. That would mean that Theta had killed a god. I'm doomed and so are we all.
Theta stirred and pulled a flask from his belt—the one that contained that witch’s brew that he had used to heal Ob’s injured arm after the gateway to Nifleheim closed. He sipped from it, and then replaced it ever so slowly and carefully on his belt. He pulled himself to his feet.
Despite himself, Ob shifted ever so slightly, though no more noise did he make than a rodent's rustle.
Theta looked directly at him through the dark and advanced on him; Ob, frozen with fear. Theta reached down, grabbed the gnome by the throat, and lifted him into the air. Ob's mouth opened as if to speak, but no words came out. His eyes bulged, pleading for mercy as his arms dangled limp.
“Speak not of what you heard between Mikel—Mortach—and I,” said Theta in a cold hard voice. “Not one word. Not to anyone or you will join him in the void. Do you understand?”
Tears streamed down Ob's face and he gasped for air. At the sight of Ob's anguish, Theta drifted back again to the days of yore.
He stood upon a hill next to his lord, looking down upon a great city.
“Have the relics been placed as I instructed?” said Azathoth.
“Mikel and Gabriel have set them exactly as you commanded, my Lord,” said Thetan.
“Good. Those below and in Gemorrda are amongst the vilest, wickedest creatures in all Midgaard. They must pay for their sins; their crimes are incalculable.”
“My Lord, Mikel and Gabriel were attacked by a mob; they sought refuge in a home and were given safe haven.”
“And that family will be spared,” said Azathoth. “The rest, for the void.”
“Surely there are others as good as that family. Had they sought refuge at another home, it may have been given just as freely. Would it not be better to kill only those known for certain to be wicked?”
“I have looked into their hearts and see nothing but cold evil, and in their black thoughts, carnal pleasures and murder. Their pollution must be wiped from the land before it corrupts others.”
“What of the children?”
“Even they have been corrupted. It saddens me more than I can say, but their souls must be cleansed before they may again return to Midgaard.”
“My lord, is there no other way?”
Azathoth paused before replying. “This is all part of my grand design, as you will see in due time. Keep faith, my beloved Arkon.”
“As you say, my Lord.”
After a time, as they stood there watching, the city exploded in flames. Thetan turned away, the screams of tens of thousands of souls pressing him back and tearing apart his heart.
Theta's eyes softened. He lowered Ob to the ground and released his grip. “I am not your enemy. Do you understand?”
Ob nodded, still gasping. “I—will—keep silent, I swear it.”
“Let's make our way back to Mideon Gate before we're di
scovered,” said Theta. “The gate will be closed soon, if not already. We must move with speed.”
XII
MIDEON GATE
“It's not even bloody dark yet, you stinking cowardly scum,” shouted Ob, Theta at his side. “Open the gate. Open up!”
“The gate is shut for the night,” called down a guardsman. “It will not open until dawn.”
Claradon, Tanch, and Dolan charged from one street, weapons in hand, and joined Theta and Ob in front of the gate. “They’re behind us,” yelled Claradon. “A mob of them.”
No sooner had he said that, than a horde of black-clad figures raced down the street and pulled up as they approached the sturdy group. From an alley crept other black figures, each held a drawn blade, club, or ax. Perhaps fifty, sixty, even eighty all told, though it was hard to tell in the deepening shadows of dusk. These assailants bore little resemblance to the cultists; these were rougher, dirtier, street thugs, dock scum, and the like. Paid killers, or so they appeared.
“Open the stinking gate,” yelled Ob once more as he pounded his fist upon it. Dolan readied his bow.
Theta stepped forward until he stood closest to the gang of assailants. There he stood transfixed, expressionless, his falchion blade pointed up and resting against his left shoulder; his shield held in his right hand, close to his chest.
“Open these stinking gates you snooters or I will skin you alive,” yelled Ob.
“It's you who will be skinned tonight, gnome,” hissed one of the figures at the forefront of the gang.
“What do you want with us?” called out Claradon. “Who sent you?”
“We're to kill you says the League,” said the figure.
“So kill you we will,” said another.
“Do you know who we are?” said Par Tanch.
“Five dead men—if we bother counting the gnome,” said the first figure. “We need know nothing else,” he said, stepping slowly forward.
“Then you don't know that I am an archmage of the Tower and that this knight is Claradon—the Lord of Dor Eotrus—who only yesterday bested the Chancellor himself in single combat. Attack us, and you will die; that will profit you nothing.”
The figure stopped his approach and looked to his comrades, uncertainty on his face. There were grumblings and murmurings amongst their ranks.
“We are many,” said a gravelly voiced figure near the first.
“True enough,” said Par Tanch. “We may not best you all, but the first five or ten or more that come at us will soak this ground with their blood.”
“Step up now,” said Par Tanch. “The ground is thirsty. Who will quench it first?”
Those men in front did not move, but looked at each other uncertainly. Those behind started to shift backward, slowly. Meanwhile, several figures moved up from the shadows in the rear. As they drew closer, it was clear these were not volsungs at all, but lugron, the dreaded enemy of humankind. They were here before us, an ancient, primitive, bestial people of the cold northlands.
“Kill them, you scum,” bellowed a huge whip-wielding lugron, “or the League will carve out your hearts.” He flicked the whip, which snapped a few feet in front of Theta. As the lugron made to step forward Theta called out, “Dolan—the lugron!”
No sooner had he said those words than an arrow struck the lugron in his left eye and partially blasted out the back of his head. He fell backward as a chopped tree and crashed to the cobblestones. The other lugron roared and charged forward, their human comrades following.
Theta's sword sang, moving too quickly to see, and lugron and human alike died at his feet, showering the cobbles in blood and gore, just as Tanch had forewarned. Simultaneously, a rain of arrows hailed down from atop Mideon Gate, plowing through the ranks of the murderous mob. This crushed their charge and sent most of them scurrying for cover. A second volley dropped a half dozen more and scattered the rest. The gang ran from the scene, fleeing for their lives. The entirety of the battle consumed but a handful of heartbeats.
“Grim Fischer at your service,” called out a gnome from atop the rampart above Mideon Gate. A dozen of Sluug’s rangers flanked him, bows in hand.
Mideon Gate opened.
“If you please, gentlemen, step lively now,” whispered Fischer, “best we be gone from these parts afore more trouble finds us this night. Let's get us somewhere where we can sit a spell in safety and drink a tankard or two.”
XIII
TRAVELERS' REST
“Beyond the farthest hill,” continued Claradon as the group sat about him at a round table in the inn called Travelers Rest.
“Across the widest sea,
Atop the highest mount
Beneath the deepest ocean
Lies Asgard—shining, eternal, beckoning us home.”
“That's a goodly one, but I'm not much for poetry,” said Ob, “especially what type as don't rhyme. But I like that one, I do.”
“I've got one,” said Grim, looking about at each man at the table, and then fixing his gaze on Theta.
“Once was a time of peace and joy, the world was young, the days were long. Odin the all-father ruled from a marble throne in shining Asgard in the Land of Vaeden. Beside him were the gods of old: Frey and Freya, Thor and Balder, Tyr and Heimdall, and on and on. Amongst their number was the evil one who shall never be named.”
I know his name, thought Ob with a shudder.
“We call him the harbinger of doom,” said Grim. “The evil one conspired with darkness and demon spawn; he sold his soul and his heart grew cold. He corrupted others with promises of power, wealth, and more base desires. Perhaps he wanted Lord Odin's throne, or perhaps his evil was for naught but evil's sake. Though he walked with the gods in Odin's halls, he was misshapen and foul of face and manner.”
Theta rolled his eyes.
“Even before he betrayed us, none called him friend, for he had a kindly word for no one. In his madness, he set out to open the ever-barred door—betwixt Midgaard and the pits of chaos, the realm of death and horror. He prayed alone to demon lords and devils of the outer spheres, atop Mount Cantorwrought, in an ancient tomb. There he practiced the blackest unspeakable rites of wickedness, preserved on leathern skins and stone menhirs from the time before man—from the time when the demons ruled Midgaard. His rites completed, the cursed portal opened and out spewed the very hordes of hell, the spawn of Nifleheim. Dragon and wight, goblin and troll, ghoul and devil, all these and countless others flew through to Midgaard. This was the plague that beset mankind. These creatures did wreak havoc and horror to all corners of the world.”
“What reward the dark powers paid the traitor is recorded nowhere, though it's said that he suffered the most vile and painful end imaginable, all at the hands of the monsters he aided. Some say that he escaped that fate and is here on Midgaard still—cursed to haunt the world forever, finding no comfort, no rest, no peace, forevermore.”
“A grim tale, Mr. Grim,” said Dolan.
“That it is. Very similar to the tale of the pagan god Azathoth and his Arkons, though, is it not?” said Grim, still staring at Theta.
“The stories of many religions oft have a common basis,” said Theta.
“But how can they both be true?” said Dolan.
“They cannot,” said Theta. “Not literally. But there is some kernel of truth contained in both, I expect, though the truth may be twisted by the tellers.”
“Indeed,” said Grim. “I think it curious nonetheless.”
“I think it curious that you stood within Hecate Hall tonight and heard the Azathoth version of the tale just as we did,” said Theta.
Grim's face grew beet red, and his eyes darted to Theta's hand, as if expecting him to go for his sword.
Theta's voice grew louder and quicker. “Where is your red robe, gnome?”
All eyes looked to Grim.
Grim smiled a thin smile, and he took a deep breath before responding. “My robe was borrowed as I entered that foul place, just as were you
rs, and discarded as I left. I was the eyes and ears of Doriath Hall this night, as is my duty. Such things can be confirmed if you doubt me.”
“Sonny,” said Ob, “if he doubted you, I expect you'd already be dead.”
Grim shrank in his seat; his face now white.
Theta smiled. He took a sip of sweet white wine and stared at the far wall of the inn, his back exposed only to the inn's brick wall, his thoughts drifting.
XIV
HARBINGER OF OUR DOOM
“I will bear the treachery and evil of this petty kingdom no longer,” said Azathoth. “They defy me and deny me at every turn. They oppress and persecute my faithful.”
“Their king and his subjects shall all suffer my wraith. My beloved, most loyal and greatest of my children—you shall have the honor of carrying out my just sentence.”
“What would you have us do?” said Mikel as he stood beside Thetan, Gabriel, Bhaal, Mithron, and Arioch, Arkons all.
“You shall go into the city this very eve and visit every home. All the doors not marked by the signs and symbols of my faithful shall be sundered. You shall enter into them, pluck the firstborn from their beds or their mothers' bosoms, and slay them as their parents watch. Every home, every child firstborn of the unbelievers shall suffer this penance. Such is my will. Such is my command.”
“Yes, my Lord,” said Mikel and Bhaal. The others nodded.
Azathoth turned and walked from the chamber, followed by Mikel and Bhaal who were off to prepare themselves. Gabriel, Thetan, Mithron, and Arioch stood transfixed and looked to each other.
“We cannot do this,” said Gabriel.
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